


The Emptied House

by mescribble



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Intimacy, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-01
Updated: 2013-03-18
Packaged: 2017-12-03 23:53:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 85,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/704090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mescribble/pseuds/mescribble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story picks up right after the S2 finale. A slow burning, Johnlock centered piece. Plot: John is grieving Sherlock, trying to move on, while Sherlock is on a hunt for retribution. It's all about action and reaction when the hunt brings Sherlock back to London and the two friends are reunited to battle the man now wearing Moriarty's crown. This is the first part of a WIP three parter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What Is Left Behind

**Author's Note:**

> Short A/N: Dear reader and fellow Sherlockian -
> 
> Now that you've stumbled upon this story I hope you may come to enjoy it. Please leave a review, it's the only thing I can ask of you and it's hugely appreciated. This story is also up on ff.net, but this is the final edit (if any edit ever can be said to be the final one) and I've made a few changes so I hope you'll stick with it here if it's new to you. I will try to update as quickly as possible. If you're even there. Perhaps no one will read it and then you can colour me scarlet. :)
> 
> Much love from Annie.

**Chapter One**

 

**2012**

**February 7th**

The room smells of a few weeks’ old layer of dust, worn in leather and a lingering scent of burning chemicals. Have I noticed it there before? I can’t remember. For some reason I value it now, as though the trace of it is a testimony to my friend having once moved through this space.  


“I didn’t want to disturb it,” Mrs. Hudson says quietly behind me.  


I don’t answer. I don’t need to. She has already turned and left me to my solitude. This place has stood for companionship, safety, home. Now it feels soulless. I steady myself at the bolt of pain that tears through me as my eyes land on the violin by the window. My jaw clenches into a tight grind and I turn to head into the kitchen.  


I open the fridge. It’s nearly empty, apart from a pint of milk and some broccoli. I remember buying the broccoli. Before.  


I close the door, turning to the kitchen island that used to be filled with a chemistry set of bottles, glass tubes and dishes. I draw a soft breath, sliding my hand over the dusty surface, taking in the other empty countertops and practically hearing the echo of my friend’s voice as he’s reciting facts like someone possessed.  


I bite the tears down and walk back into the sitting room.  


I have known this would be hard, but I haven’t expected it to feel like this. The week after the funeral is nothing but a black-swathed memory quietly tucked away somewhere indistinct, but I have done pretty well for the past seven days: I have gotten out of bed; read the newspaper before deciding I shouldn’t read the newspaper since they keep writing about the incident; then I got a haircut, but was completely assaulted by press representatives and decided against going out for a while.  


I found my refuge in a small hotel off Gower Street in the week after my friend’s departure. The hotel stay has been more expensive than my depleted funds can actually afford, but I couldn’t face the flat. I’ve never been so angry or disappointed or confused in my life and sitting in the silence he left behind only seemed to enhance the emotions. He left and for what? What for? I still don’t understand. I still can’t see the reason, and for him to leave he would have had to have had an astonishingly good one.  


My hand goes in a fist to my mouth, pressing itself against my lips and I shake my head slowly at myself; at how the grief is like a living thing inside of me, gnawing at my bones, burrowing through my chest. It will nest there. I will never be rid of it.  


My friend Sherlock Holmes is dead.  


I haven’t had a proper cry. I’ve been close, but I’ve been able to square my shoulders and remind myself that nothing good will come of it. It is useless. Tears are useless. They won’t change a thing.  


But now I sink down into the well-known chair opposite Sherlock’s empty one and break down. Allow myself this moment of utter weakness, certain that Sherlock, if he could see me, would be utterly unimpressed. It makes me smile through the hurt.  


_Oh, do cheer up, John. Sentiment clouds judgment and your judgment is telling you that life will inevitably go on. ___  


“Yes,” I mumble, digging my fingers into my eyelids, unable to stop my sobbing. “Inevitably, Sherlock.”  


The sorrow is like a raw patch around my heart. It wakes me up at night, chaffing persistently at my dreams until the discomfort makes me rise. I’ll walk up to the window of my hotel room to look down at the quiet ally below. I’ve spent hours at that window, watching the abandoned narrow street, waiting for Sherlock’s silhouette to appear; for Sherlock’s ghost to join me, reflect itself in the window. I’m too rational to believe in that sort of thing, but nevertheless I’ve longed for a spectre to allow me another glimpse; I’ve wanted Sherlock’s presence to fill the room and choke the loneliness right out of me.  


Now I feel Mrs. Hudson’s hands on my shoulders. She’s in front of me, gently pulling my head to her stomach as I wrap my arms around her waist, unable to compose myself, thankful I needn’t in front of her because she feels my pain, is a part of it, like an extra limb attached to me for this brief moment. She’s crying, too. She’s lost him, too. She knows. She’s known us both.  


“It’ll get better,” she says softly, her hands brushing at my hair.  


It would have annoyed me – I dislike being treated like a little boy – but now it’s soothing. Motherly. Welcomed.  


She’s wrong, though. It will never get better. The grief will nest and thread through me until all that is left of me is a shell. I’ll live – inevitably – but there will be no life left in me. I acknowledge this for one brilliant second before I push the melodrama of it away, shut it into a compartment somewhere at the back of my head and begin to regain control of myself.  


“It’ll get better with time,” Mrs. Hudson repeats as we let each other go.  


I pull my palms over my cheeks, wiping the wetness away, snivelling slightly before I nod.  


“Yes, thank you, I’m sure it will,” I tell her.  


She seems to believe me.

**February 19th**

“I must tell you, John, your CV is quite impressive.”  


Dr. Morton looks at me over his thick glasses and I smile my thanks.  


“But your connection with this stirring surrounding Sherlock Holmes…”  


“Let me, please, if I may, stop you there. I have been to interviews at three other private practices, as I’m sure you already know, and I need work. I need something to do. I am dedicated. I am professional. And I am a very good surgeon. I would ask of you to set yourself apart from the rest of London and not bring my former colleague into this context.”  


Dr. Morton eyes me for another moment before sinking back in his leather chair.  


The office is not very large, not very suave and doesn’t speak at all of a bloated ego. It’s filled with medical journals, textbooks and on the wall by the door it has a drawing of a human profile with its brain detailed within its confines. It looks old and inspirational. All this makes me think that Dr. Morton takes pride in the outcome of his work, not in what the outcome might do for his reputation. It makes me feel as though the doctor takes his profession seriously and if the stacked bookcases are anything to go by he is also very passionate about it. The doctor himself is slightly unkempt and looks sleep-deprived: clearly a workaholic, married to his work.  


The phrase makes me think of my first dinner with Sherlock.  


My own slow prowess at studying my surroundings and attempting to interpret it seems pale whenever my friend enters my head. And the gnawing intensifies. Little teeth along my aching bones. I clear my throat.  


Dr. Morton takes it for a sign of impatience at having to wait for a reply, but doesn’t seem to mind. Instead he smiles and nods.  


“I believe you will fit in nicely here,” he states, rising and reaching his hand across the desk.  
I stand as well, taking the hand in a firm grip.  


“Welcome,” Dr. Morton adds.  


I feel some sense of relief for the first time in months. This is a good thing I’ve managed. It will take my mind off of everything – including the media circus surrounding Sherlock’s passing and all the subsequent question marks the eager tabloids are presenting the public with. It will allow me to feel some sort of purpose.  


“Thank you,” I say.  


Dr. Morton might never know the depth of my gratitude. 

**An Hour Later**

When I return to 221B I can hear the hoover before I’ve climbed the first set of stairs. I walk through the door of the sitting room and have to remind myself that cleaning is a good incentive on Mrs. Hudson’s part: I know she’s waited only for my sake. After all, Sherlock doesn’t reside in dust mites or revered seat cushions – he breathed that laboratory and he stocked the fridge with unseemly things and all of that is gone already, what does it matter if Mrs. Hudson makes the place sparkle? Sherlock doesn’t live here anymore.  


Still, when she pushes my friend’s chair out of position to get to the space underneath it I almost stalk up to it in order to have it back in its rightful place immediately.  


“Oh,” she says when she notices me in the doorway, a hand at her chest. “You gave me a fright.”  


“Sorry,” I apologize sincerely.  


We share a smile.  


“I should do that,” I add with a nod at her task, but she waves a hand.  


“Just about finished. And? How did it go?” she wonders.  


“It went well,” I smile, heading into the kitchen. “It went very well.”  


“Good for you, dear,” she says.  


I open the fridge, but change my mind as the hunger I felt disappears at seeing all the fresh food; a part of me was apparently expecting toes or ears or tongues and the lack of them is an almost startling reminder. My brain keeps doing that – one moment’s awareness is replaced with a string of them filled with pointless anticipation. I close the door again.  
She turns the hoover off and I hear her shuffle towards the door, dragging it behind her.  


“Perhaps we should paint the walls in this room, what do you think?” she asks from the doorway.  


Everything in me shivers its protest through me, making goose bumps spread up my arms.  


“Something bright,” she adds. “Yellow, perhaps.”  


She disappears and I let out a soft sigh. Bright yellow walls? Sherlock would have broken down into a temper tantrum at the very idea. That makes me smirk in spite of the soft twirl of melancholy and I casually walk into the sitting room, beginning to gently push the furniture back into place.  


I know I need to deal with putting Sherlock’s belongings in boxes and sending them off to his brother, but Mycroft hasn’t exactly shown any interest in collecting them and I’ve put it off. I can’t imagine the sitting room without Sherlock’s books, his desk, his sofa. And then his bedroom, his closet with his suits, the bathroom with his aftershave, the drawer in the kitchen with weird things to use when identifying means of murder. All of it boxed up, never to be seen again. I can’t face it quite yet.  
I stop by Sherlock’s chair, pushing it into place with care, standing by it for a long moment, observing it thoughtfully.  


_Move._  


I do.  


**March 10th**

I accept the cup of tea from Harry. She looks at me, but I turn my eyes on the twirling steam of the hot liquid, scenting the mint, almost closing my eyes at the familiarity of it. These small everyday things have grown important to me in a way they’ve never been before, as though the yanking away of someone I had expected to be a constant in my life has heightened my need of routine items: they give me a strange sense of solace.  


I arrived yesterday. I had to get away from the media, from the headlines plastered all over the city, from the fury I feel at one of them stating in bold letters “Mystery revealed – John Watson tells all!” Banging my head against the _Daily Mail_ will do me no good, nor will it change anything of the perception of the public and the damage already done – I can’t save Sherlock’s good name, I’m much too late for that. It’s sullied, as black as the ink the papers print it with. It’s indescribably painful to me.  


Work gave me a leave of absence, Dr. Morton not even hesitating. He’s proving a very understanding, nonjudgmental and fair employer and I’m beginning to respect him more with every time we meet.  


“Fuck the fuckers,” Harry mutters, looking away from me and out the window at the stormy afternoon, rain pelting her small garden.  


I can’t help but smile and clink my cup against hers. 

**March 15th**

  


I haven’t checked my emails for weeks and am shocked to find the daunting number 531 by the Inbox icon. I grow hesitant, seated in the sofa of Harry’s guestroom, the windows overlooking a chilly and crisp morning that promises to turn into a beautiful day. As I woke with something close to peace in my head, the sort of peace that I haven’t experienced for a very long time – too long – I felt ready to tackle the social obligations I’ve neglected, but now I’m beginning to regret it.  


My pragmatic side takes over. Better to have it over with.  


I click to enter the Inbox and quickly scan the subjects. As I had feared most of them state re: Sherlock Holmes or Mr. Holmes. Some say Condolences. I decide to save them for last: most of them are bound to be somewhat sympathetic.  
My heart is beating hard as I double click on the first email. It opens and reads:  


_Dear Dr. John Watson –_  


_I had to write you this email because I had to tell you that I’m on your side. The despicability showed by the national press in this matter is absolutely abhorrent, possibly with the exception of some of the more respectable newspapers. Though I would rather they didn’t even speculate in the matter. I hired the services of Mr. Holmes many years ago. While his proceedings were slightly startling, he found my brother who had gone missing when we were both children. I had lost all hope when I heard Mr. Holmes’ name mentioned by a friend of mine and he proved a blessing. I wanted you to know that whatever lies have been spread about Mr. Holmes, I know I hired him out of my own pocket with no influence by him or anyone else and he found a person that no one else had been able to track down, allowing my brother to reconcile with his past and quite possibly saving his life. I am more than willing to come forward and tell this fact to the public. Please contact me._  


_Kind regards,_  
 _Priscilla Prince._  


My hands are shaking. I’ve begun to sweat. I open twenty more emails in rapid succession: four of them are inconsequential, people simply wanting to ask direct questions about what happened; two of them are angry, upset, furious attacks at my friend and I barely glance at them; but the rest of them echo Priscilla Prince’s sentiments and soon I feel an incredible sense of liberation fill me. Here it is. Here’s the foundation I’ve needed. How could I not think of this? My blind faith in my friend made me not see how other people who had met him outside of Moriarty’s web would share in that faith.  


I lean back, closing my eyes.  


“Thank God,” I more or less moan. 

**May 29th**

  


“Sherlock?” Mycroft’s voice says my name, making me look up from the front page of the newspapers all piled on his desk.  


“In here,” I reply.  


I’m standing in the study that once belonged to our father, in a house commissioned by his great grandfather. The study is smaller than one would expect comparing it to the rest of the large halls and broad hallways of the building, but it’s still imposing. I’ve always disliked it. The dark wood panel is oppressive: a tomb rather than a place for reflection and decision making. My father made a lot of his decisions in the confines of these walls, many of them wise, all of them tenacious – once his mind was made up there was no changing it.  


Mycroft enters through a side door, carrying what appears to be a fresh batch of morning papers.  


“They’ll be appointing you for sainthood if this continues,” he says, tossing them onto the others before me.  
I glance at them – “40 to stand as character witnesses for deceased Sleuth”; “’He found me, even when I didn’t want to be found,’ declares Peter Prince”; “Moriarty: hoax or hoaxer?”  


John, I think to myself, look at what you’ve done.  


Something twitches in my chest. Something nearly suffocated, something barely a glimmer, but relentless in its refusal to simply allow me to snuff it out. It twitches at the thought of you, in dying protest, and every time I think of you it finds another weak spot for its clutching hold on me.  


“We’ll keep Richard Brooks alive. Paint him out as the one with delusions of grandeur. Spin a tale of how he hatched his plan to bring down the great detective,” Mycroft says, having a seat in the leather chair, which makes the exact same sound it made when we were children, standing sentinel before father’s desk, waiting for him to lecture us or, very rarely, praise us. Mycroft brings me out of the memory by adding: “There should no longer be an immediate threat to anyone connected with you, but an eye will be kept on the matter, if you wish.”  


I cock an eyebrow.  


“Should I take that offer as an apology?” I wonder.  


“Depends on whether you desire one,” he replies drily.  


I realize I don’t. He did what he thought was necessary. I wouldn’t apologize for making a choice I found to be the only logical one to make.  


“He is fiercely loyal,” Mycroft comments.  


I don’t want to discuss you. I don’t want to think about you or hear your name spoken or linger on anything connected with you. I simply want to release you. And yet my mouth quirks up in a small smile as I look at the heap of newspapers, all of them proclaiming the clearing of my name. You still refuse to give interviews, but you set this in motion. Lestrade has joined in as a representative of the police force, speaking out against the allegations as they find my casework consistent. It’s a triumph over Moriarty that leaves me feeling cold – because I don’t want to think or hear or linger on you.  


“I’m travelling to Devon tonight,” I say.  


“On the chase, then,” Mycroft replies. “Take care not to get spotted. You know if you’re discovered it will undo all that your death has secured.”  


“Including your one shot at infiltrating Moriarty’s network,” I remark pointedly, my tone telling him to drop the faked concern. “It’s easy to blend into a crowd once you know how to make people see what you want them to see,” I add, heading up to the door and leaving the room without looking back.  


I’ll be careful. I know I have to be careful. I’m aware of how pivotal it is not to be careless now. Especially now, when everything is still recent and fresh in the minds of those I mean to hunt down.  


I step out into the warm evening air and head for the car parked on the gravel driveway, feeling thoroughly relieved to finally be on the move instead of sitting cooped up in that poor excuse for a home. Mycroft has kept the house just as mother left it. Naturally. I always feel restless in its stuffy rooms with their tapestries and collectables. The fine furniture and the art. I think of Baker Street.  


Then I don’t.  


I get in the car and start the engine, leaving the driveway, enjoying the darkness surrounding me, enjoying how the headlights chase it, making it part to the sides of the road. I push down on the gas and accelerate.


	2. Goodbye to Yesterday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed - makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. You are awesome! Here's the second installment.
> 
> Love from Annie.

**Chapter Two**

**July 28th**

  


I am a _doctor_ , I think to myself. I am a _rational_ human being.  


I stand in the kitchen of 221B, unpacking groceries with harsh movements, the annoyance I’m feeling being enough to make me want to hurl something at the wall and when I realize I’ve managed to forget to buy the eggs I needed specifically for the omelette I was going to prepare for lunch I lean my hands on the kitchen table and hang my head as I draw a slow breath.  


I was distracted.  


In the supermarket I was distracted by a tall, dark, lean man in a charcoal suit who was loitering by the office supplies. I had to look three times before I was able to effectively convince myself that he was a stranger and that the well-known face I’d appointed him was nothing but a manifestation of my own desperate cling to hope.  


I could have sworn it was Sherlock. My heart leaped into my throat and I was shaking so badly for the rest of the shop that I got green bell pepper instead of red – and I can’t stand the green – on top of which I got two kilos of tomatoes for no apparent reason whatsoever and I forgot the bloody eggs.  


I have to stop this. It’s not healthy, I know it isn’t. My therapist says it is all part of the grieving process and that it’s perfectly normal to see the face of the one you’ve lost on random people in the street. She keeps telling me it will take time and that I should let it. There’s no rushing it, she says. Your mind will take the time it needs to comprehend and process and then your heart will catch up, she says.  


But I don’t see Sherlock’s face on random people in the street for a momentary glimpse that’s easily brushed off. The times I’ve thought I’ve seen him it’s been a full minute of actually being so entirely certain that it’s him standing across from me on the tube or seated near me in a restaurant or shopping for pencils at the supermarket that I’ve had to stare hard to get the image of him to shift into who I’m really looking at, and every time I’ve had this violent reaction as the hope has surfaced and I’ve realized that I simply don’t believe it. I don’t _believe_ he’s gone.  


And it has to stop.  


It isn’t healthy.  


“Woo-hoo,” Mrs. Hudson says, a light knock on the door as she pokes her head inside, taking in the groceries and giving me a smile. “Done with the shopping for the week, then? Oh, goodness, that’s a lot of tomatoes, isn’t it?”  


I give her a smile in agreement before I turn to the fridge, opening it and beginning to put the food away.  


“I visited Sherlock today,” she says and I can feel how my movements grow tense, sure that she can pick up on it, but I can’t help it.  


She didn’t visit Sherlock. She visited a piece of black marble with his name on it.  


“I really wish you’d come with me next week,” she tries, her voice meant to sound gently reproaching, but she might as well have dragged her nails down a chalkboard for all the subtlety she’s offering. “It does you good to sit with him for a while. Makes you feel as though he can see you. Hear you.”  


I’m aware. I’m well aware. But the first and only time I ever voiced feelings I’d never been able to speak aloud to my complicated friend was when looking at my own reflection behind the gilded letters spelling his name, and I can’t go back there. I can’t. Especially since I’m trying to override the part of me – the stubborn part of me – that is nursing its irrational hope.  


“Believe me,” I say, “that’s the last thing I need.”  


She’s about to voice another nudge, but something in my expression halts her and she eyes me for a moment before she nods a little.  


“Yes, of course. Whatever you say, dear,” she acquiesces, her face softened by some sort of understanding as she gives me another smile and leaves.  


I slow my movements until I’m standing still, looking at the sunlight falling in through the sitting room window, pooling in the rounded creases of the leather of his chair and I know what I have to do.  


After I finish the groceries I pick up my laptop and go online to search for a real estate agent.

**August 3rd**

“Molly!” I call out when I spot her across the street.  


She doesn’t hear me, headed down the sidewalk, hands in the pockets of her trench coat, her hair blowing in the wind. The best word to describe her small form is forlorn. I try to wave, but she veers to the right into a side street and I hurry in her wake once the light finally switches.  


“Molly!” I yell again, her long tresses covering her face as she turns to the sound of her name.  


Her nervous fingers work at getting the locks out of her line of sight and when she sees me approaching she puts on a smile.  


“Oh, John, hello,” she says as we both try to decide whether we should hug or just shake hands: finally choosing the latter.  


Her hand is cold. For a moment I think she doesn’t want to hold onto mine for too long, but rather is about to yank her fingers away, turn and run as fast as she can in the opposite direction.  


“It’s been ages,” I say with a smile. “How are you?”  


“I’m fine,” she nods, pulling the coat tighter around her. “Just fine, actually. You?”  


“Oh, you know, working. At the clinic off Russell Square.”  


“Oh,” she says, the word sounding somehow overly polite.  


I get the distinct feeling she wants to be anywhere but here. I haven’t seen her since Sherlock’s funeral. I haven’t heard from her since then, in fact. Not that I’ve been reaching out either, but I’m surprised at her reaction to me. I thought perhaps she hadn’t wanted to see me because she was the one who pronounced Sherlock and she didn’t want to be reminded of it – she had a thing for him, that much was always perfectly apparent – but I thought we’d be passed that by now.  


“And you?” I prod.  


“Well, work, work, work. You know, people keep dying, never a quiet moment. Or, I suppose, only quiet ones for me,” she gives a short, edgy giggle and I frown wonderingly at her. “Anyways,” she shakes her head, her smile now as hesitant as her display of mirth and when her eyes wander away from mine my frown deepens. “I’m running late. So... have to go, but this was... I’m glad you’re well.”  


And she’s already walking away, waving with one hand before she disappears amongst the loiterers and office workers and tourists.  


I stare after her, completely taken aback by her strange behaviour.  


Come to think of it, she acted very off at the funeral as well. I remember reflecting over it at the time, how she seemed to not quite be able to look me in the eye for any longer period of time and, even stranger, how she didn’t cry. I was observant that day; I watched every face around me in that church, and there weren’t that many, since Mycroft chose to have a closed ceremony. I was desperately trying to focus away from the ripping in my chest and instead find some sort of harbour in the grief of the others. And I remember that Molly didn’t cry.

**August 7th**

“Whatever little regard you may have for my choice of employment, I don’t take kindly to being summoned by anyone. But you know this already.”  


I glance up at Mycroft as he takes the seat opposite me, lifting an eyebrow at his sour looks.  


We’re in the drawing room of his townhouse, in which he spends as little time as possible – he is either in his offices or the Sussex estate and I can see why: this place is barely furnished. I’ve never been able to conclude whether it’s a busy schedule or simple disinterest on his part which keeps him from doing anything about it. In any case, I wouldn’t want to spend time here either. Then again, I wouldn’t want to spend time anywhere that Mycroft chose to spend his so quite possibly I’m biased.  


“Problem?” I now ask.  


His mouth shows his dislike and I let out a soft sigh of impatience.  


“Gdansk,” I simply say.  


Mycroft observes me intently.  


“So all that hard work has finally paid off,” he comments. “And I suppose you’ve come here for assistance in the matter.”  


I hold his gaze and after a minute there’s a subtle curling of his lips as he knows I know he will help me. He has no choice. I’m valuable to him, whether he wants to admit it or not, and he’d rather see me able to do what it is I do without this cloak and dagger routine slowing me down.  


These past seven and a half months since my fall have been spent following the delicately laced web of the consultant criminal and this has involved a more strenuous process than I anticipated. Naturally I’ve had to be cautious. Frustratingly so. But at last I have the name of the first assassin.  


“A team of four,” Mycroft now says. “That’s all I can spare.”  


I smirk, rising to my feet.  


“Text me the details,” I say, turning from him, about to go when he stops me with:  


“Doctor Watson is leaving Baker Street. Did you know?”  


It’s surprisingly sharp, the shock at hearing your name. I haven’t in three months. Something dangerously close to longing breaks through me in the aftermath of the initial reaction and I turn my head to Mycroft in an attempt to dispel the sensation.  


“Understandable,” I offer.  


“Yes, I suppose it is. He sent me your things a while back now. Neatly packaged and labelled.”  


My throat is growing dry. I want to ignore it, but the physical is more difficult to control than the emotional and my heart is picking up its pace as I think of your hands packing my belongings one by one.  


You’re moving on.  


It was inevitable and I’ve been fully aware that you would, but somehow I’m still reacting to the idea of Baker Street without you. It’s oddly discomforting, you not occupying its well-known rooms.  


“He kept your violin,” Mycroft now says, raising his eyebrows. “Asked if I’d mind, though I got the distinct feeling he would have kept it even if I’d voiced a protest. He’s not happy with me, Sherlock.”  


I have nothing to reply to that.  


Mycroft watches me in silence for a few moments before he waves his hand in dismissal. I consider staying put, merely to annoy him, but instead I turn from him and head for the door.  


There’s lightness in my chest that I would label as nothing short of elation and it’s been brought on by something that should be negligible to me, but isn’t. Something which, in fact, seems to mean a great deal more to me than I ever would have expected: my violin is staying in your possession. You have chosen it, you want it with you. I’m still taking up some part of your life.  


I shouldn’t want it. I’ve struggled to keep myself from wanting to be wanted by you and I thought I’d let you go. Clearly I’ve been entirely wrong. The urge to travel the twenty minutes it would take me to reach you is almost overwhelming, but I manage to suppress it. Of all the other reasons telling me that I can’t, the most predominant one is that you make me weak. You make me have a weakness as you make me need and fear and it turns things that should be visible and clear into indistinguishable peripherals. You can’t be my focus and somehow you positioned yourself there without even meaning to.  


Gdansk, then. And a manhunt. Should help me centre away from you.  


I step out of the front door and into a waiting cab, sinking back in the deep leather seat and looking out the window. For a moment you’re there with me, next to me, scribbling some random note in that notebook of yours, the car’s movements making it difficult for you, and I close my eyes, willing the impression away until you’ve gone and I can open them again.  
I have an objective. It’s all that can matter.

 

**October 14th**

  


“John,” Mike Stamford says; making me turn my head to him and the pretty young woman he is ushering by the elbow to approach me.  


I’m standing in the crowded space he calls his drawing room in his small, suburban home near Wimbledon. It’s a nice place, but it screams of bachelorhood and for some reason it’s depressing me tonight, as though it serves to enhance the loneliness I insist on dragging around with me like a heavy chain. I’ve tried to drop it, but somehow it’s better than feeling nothing at all.  


The woman has her black hair in an attractive bob and her eyes are big and blue and friendly and I find myself staring at her for a moment too long before I offer up a smile. She returns it with ease, clasping my outstretched hand as Mike fills in:  


“This is Audrey. Audrey, meet John. The _doctor_.”  


She releases my hand with her eyebrows raised at Mike’s obvious wink of a statement.  


“I swear, I haven’t requested that kind of introduction,” I hold my hands up, Mike having made himself scarce.  


“Perhaps you should,” she smirks.  


I immediately relax. This won’t be another one of those stiff, small-talk infested meet-and-greets where I can tell what the other person really wants to talk about is something so profoundly personal they dare not even raise the subject, even less mention the man by name.  


“So titles work on you, then? I’ll have to remember that,” I say and her smirk widens.  


“Only because I don’t have one yet myself,” she admits freely. “I like to pre-bask in the glory of others.”  


“But you will?”  


“Yes, I’m studying geology at the moment, for my PhD.”  


“Really? What do you plan to do with that?” I ask, actually interested and almost a little surprised at it myself.  


“Well,” she says, motioning toward the open bar Mike has set up in one corner of the room.  


I give a nod and we head over there as she explains:  


“I’d like to work with renewable energy. You know, hydropower?”  


“Sure, like the Hoover dam.”  


“Yeah,” she says, beaming at the impression I’m making. “I’m amazed you’d actually offer up an example.”  


I smile, trying to ignore Sherlock’s voice in my head droning on about the importance of knowing the ebb and flow of rivers and streams if one is to be able to make correct deductions about the actual place of drowning. How certain bacteria thrive at specific points of the flow and will then be washed out by the ebb, how the wildlife of a lake is different to a dam is different to a pond etcetera. Just on and on and on.  


“Let’s just say the knowledge was thrust upon me,” I say, having her mirror my smile again.  


“Well, I’d also really enjoy getting involved with measuring water levels around the world. I’d like to help prevent more of our great lakes and rivers running dry because I do believe there is an efficient way to get in early and read the surrounding nature if we can compare it to other areas where drought has caused extensive damage and I’m sorry, I get overly excited and I just talk and talk,” she excuses herself, taking the white wine spritzer I’m handing her.  


I smile at her, genuinely.  


“I don’t mind listening,” I tell her and she smiles back, charmingly.

**November 13th**

  


I don’t feel Sherlock as strongly as I did a few months ago. Then I had the notion in my chest that he could, at any moment, appear. I felt it in the very marrow of my bones in such a way that it was impossible to ignore it or put it out of my mind. Now it’s not as palpable anymore; though it’s still there: the anticipation. Perhaps Audrey is helping with tying me to reality. I wanted to drift.  


Six months ago I was drifting on an ocean of remembered moments that I was terrified of forgetting. I needed them all because they were to be my only ones. I wanted to remember him so that Moriarty wouldn’t have killed him entirely. Not the man I knew, not the sides to him no one else could or wanted to or were bothered to notice. These sides were mine alone and they’d live on – I’d keep them alive. But I know now that it doesn’t hold. The drifting obscures and demeans what life should really be about and the grief, with its sandpaper tongue and niggling teeth, can’t be what I cling to.  


And so I let Audrey fill up the holes. She almost manages it. I want to love her. I want to fall in love with her in that crackling, exciting, overpowering way I keep hearing so much about. So why can’t I?  


I look over at her where she’s sleeping next to me and I rise.  


Her apartment is smaller than mine. She’s lived in it for five years and it’s a real home with knick-knacks and quirky furniture and a skull sprayed directly on one wall by a clearly talented artist. Her sister, she told me. It mocked me the first time I came over, a week ago, but now I rather like it. It’s done in different shades of blue. It reminds me of his scarf.  


I head into the kitchen, unsure of what I’m looking for. Am I hungry or thirsty or did I just want to get out of bed?  


I walk up to the window, staring down at Edgware Road – empty at this time of night – and feeling some sort of knot in my stomach that I don’t know the origin of. Why am I so damn unhappy? I’ve got a good job, a support system of friends, a new girlfriend who’s funny, warm and sweet, a new apartment, a new life.  


I don’t want it.  


I clench my jaws together.  


I’m unhappy because I don’t want it.

**December 24th**

  


You take pleasure in this time of year. I watch a family walk past outside the restaurant window, proud in their unity, in their conformity to the season as they’re rosy-cheeked and their eyes are filled with expectation and joy. Even the father and mother look as though their plotting of what to surprise their son and daughter with tomorrow morning is exciting to them. They’re all so invested in it, in the plainness of giving and receiving.  


You are as well.  


You decidedly ignored my comments on religious holidays being nothing but mind-washing of the masses by an aged belief system that is on the brink of extinction, a point which every belief system inevitably reaches, and decked Baker Street out for a Christmas get together. You even handed me a gift Christmas morning with a solemn expression, which told me there was no point in refusing. It was a small box and in it lay a new lens, as I’d unfortunately lost my trusted tool in a chase down Charlotte Street a week or so earlier. I don’t like to admit it, but I appreciated the gesture even more than I appreciated the contents because, as ever, by the smallest of means you successfully showed your support. Of me and everything you’d become a part of.  


I didn’t buy you anything in return, my mind staggered at what to get you – whenever I’ve felt obligated to buy anything for anyone it’s always been met with clear disapproval and it’s been years since I attempted it – but I knew you didn’t give me a gift in order to get something for it. It’s one of the many things I always found comforting about you, the unconditional way in which you perform even the simplest of acts.  


Now I blink away the image of Baker Street, so clear in my mind that I can see how the soft glow of the Christmas lights spread new shadows across the walls and over your face. I chase the image of you away after it, but no matter how I try, I can’t seem to erase you.  


I’m seated in a hotel restaurant just south of the Notre Dame. This lead, which I picked up three weeks ago in Rotterdam, has taken us to the heart of Paris and has finally proved fruitful: the second assassin, Mr. Romey Godfrey, is here, seated four tables down with his back to me, the tattoo on his neck snaking down below the collar of his over-priced shirt.  


I’d like to stalk up there and slam his forehead against the white table cloth until it’s stained red, but I am being kept under a closer eye by Daniel, team leader of the MI5 agents my brother lent me, after I lost my temper with Mishka Stromonov – whom we tracked down in Sofia after losing him in Gdansk. The apprehension of the guilty party needs to be done by the book, or so he claims.  


At least he’s not keeping me idle – in one minute I’m to rise and approach; Mr. Godfrey will spot me and, if I’m not wrong, he’ll try to take hostages. There are fifteen other guests in the room. We will have to move quickly because Mr. Godfrey has already eluded us twice. The team is standing by and I rise, heading toward the mark without hesitation.  


Game over.

**December 25th**

There’s laughter in my apartment for the first time since I moved in. I’ve been so busy at work I haven’t really had the inclination to have anyone over, but now Audrey, Mike and Mrs. Hudson have joined me for Christmas dinner. I sent an invitation to Lestrade, but he was working over the holidays. I invited Molly as well, but she declined almost immediately, explaining that she was going to visit her brother in Wales. I wasn’t surprised. I’ve sent her two texts asking if she’d like to have coffee and catch up, but nothing’s come of it.  


“Let’s have a toast,” Mike says, raising his glass. “To friends we’ve gained. Friends we’ve kept. And friends we’ve lost.”  
I feel my smile tremble dangerously, but raise my glass and take a big mouthful of the wine to steady myself. Will I ever stop having this reaction? He wasn’t even mentioned by name, for God’s sake. My eyes drift to Audrey’s and I can tell she can tell.  


She grants me a small smile, but I can barely bring myself to return it. We haven’t discussed him at all and it’s been a relief not to, but she’s aware of him lingering. I’ve caught her eyeing the violin. It’s placed on one of the built-in shelves between the sitting room windows. A little hard to miss, I admit that, put I put it there the day I moved in and there it has stayed.  


The season has proven harder than I expected. He never partook in it, he had no interest in it whatsoever, he more or less huffed at everything I tried to do to make Baker Street a little more Christmas friendly and he absolutely hated the idea of Christmas shopping. I never got the chance to ask him what his Christmases were like when he was little – they can’t have been very happy ones. But for all his griping he somehow made it that much more fun, because when all was said and done I could tell he enjoyed the decorations and the gifts and the thought of Christmas on some level. This makes the loss of him reflect itself back at me in a different light to the rest of the past twelve months and it makes it that much harder.  


“I’ll get the pudding,” Mrs. Hudson says, rising and beginning to clear the table.  


“No, no, please,” I say, getting to my feet, but she hushes me.  


“It’s only a few plates; sit,” she insists, leaving the room.  


Audrey gives me another smile and rises, collecting the remaining dishes before she follows in Mrs. Hudson’s wake. I give Audrey’s back a look of gratitude.  


Mike sends a smile my way as I take my seat again. He seems pensive as he makes his beer glass turn slowly in the wet circle its condensation is leaving on the tablecloth. I have another mouthful of wine.  


“You enjoy working at the clinic, then?” he asks.  


“I do,” I answer.  


“I suppose it’s nice with something a bit more stabile, too. Steady pay check and all that,” he says wisely.  


I feel something not far from ice begin to spread through my stomach at the one topic I really want to stay away from tonight. I don’t even want to mention him. I won’t enjoy this evening if I’m somehow allowed to dwell on his absence – it will push at the actual presence of the others until it’s meaningless. They deserve better. And I have to bring myself into the understanding that he’s gone.  


“It’s fine,” I mumble, gaze on the crimson of the wine instead of Mike and he seems to pick up on my tension as there’s a slight pause before he says:  


“What did you think of those decorations in Selfridge’s then?”  


I smirk.  


“Quite nice this year,” I say and he mirrors my smirk as Mrs. Hudson returns with the pudding, Audrey carrying fresh plates and cutlery.  


“Here we are,” Mrs. Hudson smiles, putting the pudding down.  


Here we are, I think to myself, looking at the three of them and almost seeing him bustle in, wild-eyed and snow-covered, demanding our immediate attention as he declares we have a client; that he’s unable to explain or divulge any more information but I must come immediately, never mind about the pudding.  


I smile then.  


Merry Christmas, Sherlock.


	3. Where to Turn

**2013**

  


**January 3rd**

  


“I’m nervous,” Audrey says; her arms clutched tightly to her chest.  


The pose makes her look as though she’s trying to keep warm but, given the fact that we’re standing in an overheated backstage space of a small theatre, this seems rather improbable to me.  


She’s performing in an amateur production of _The Beauty Queen of Leenane_ , which starts in about ten minutes. She’s playing a woman named Maureen who has a complex relationship with her mother, the workings of which I’ve gotten to know well over the last three weeks reading lines with her.  


Now I reach out and rub her upper arms comfortingly. They’re surprisingly cool. She really is nervous.  


“You’ll do great,” I reassure her. “You know everything you’re supposed to say and all of the... what are they called?”  


“Cues?”  


She smiles then and I return it.  


“Right,” I nod, kissing her cheek. “Break a leg.”  


“Odd thing for a doctor to say,” she calls after me as I head for the exit door, located to the side of the stage, and I grant her another smile before I disappear through it.  


The place is packed and buzzing with indistinct conversation. The scraping of shoes against the wooden floor and the sound of the aged seats creaking under the weight of the assembled audience is slightly hypnotizing – it makes my mind wander. I’ve worked seven days straight and part of me is still with the three cases that need a follow-up. I can’t remember if I asked Kate – the receptionist – to call Mr. Humphrey tomorrow and reschedule his cancelled appointment.  


The lights dim and the curtain rises and I try to concentrate on what’s going on up on stage, letting my eyes follow Audrey’s movements and laughing with the rest of the audience when the energy between her and Diane – playing her mother Mag – begins to pay off immediately. Neither are the right age for the parts, but the director wanted a young cast and they’re wearing theatre make-up, the shading creating the illusion of a forty-year old and seventy-year old to great effect. I’m relieved for her. I know this means a great deal to her and she seems to quickly have relaxed into it. She’s actually very good.  


Then a memory sneaks up on me from nowhere. It was created the first time I actually saw him put his astounding abilities to good use in a case. His changed expression, his earnest emotion, it completely threw me. I got with the program quickly enough, but once we were back in Baker Street I had to tell him of my first impression and ask him where the hell he learned to do that. He put on a casual air at my professing my awe, but I could tell he was pleased. As usual his answer was straight and to the point.  


_There’s only one thing about acting that you need to understand, John._  


_Really? What’s that?_  


_It’s all a lie. In the end._  


_Well, yes, I knew that. Make-believe. Clearly._  


_Did you also know that the key to acting well is believing your own lie?_  


_I see. …And I suppose there’s a key to acting brilliantly, too, then._  


_Yes – becoming the lie._  


And he always did. He stepped into the part he played with everything in him and allowed it to take over, for however long he needed it to. Sometimes I did wonder at how someone so clearly incapable of embracing even the idea of empathy, someone who had somewhere along the line ruled it out as an unnecessary obstacle that should be obliterated rather than allowed to stand in ones way, could be such a sure-fire when it came to manipulating others.  


The applause bring me out of my thoughts and I immediately begin to clap, my eyes thankfully having followed Audrey of their own accord and she smiles at me as she receives the bouquet I dropped off with one of the stage hands before I went to see her backstage. I smile back, giving a whistle and making her curtsey deeply, laughing, her arms full of pink roses.  


**January 7th**

  


Copenhagen.  


I’m running down a backstreet off the main road. I’m sweating. I’ve been running for nearly two miles. I’ve had her in my sight three times now: Mona Little, final assassin, final mark, final bullet. The last catch to secure before it’s over with at long last. Then the real fun starts.  


I realize I’ve lost her just as an arrow whizzes past my head and I immediately get myself pressed against the brick wall. The move should keep me moderately safe and out of the archer’s line of sight, the out-jutting balconies along the side of the building serving to ensure it further, but nevertheless I stay perfectly still, and wait.  


She must have climbed a fire escape. I didn’t even hear it. She’s like a shadow and she keeps slipping out of our grasp.  


I know there’s been whisperings in the circles where she moves. Rumours about what happened to her two colleagues – apprehended and brought to justice in the way that they were; enough evidence collected against them to incarcerate them for the rest of their lives. This last one is slippery because of the warning signs she’s been given. We almost had her a month ago in Shanghai, but she disappeared from our radar and we had to find the trail again. It took us to Russia before landing us here in Denmark.  


I carefully move my hand and bring out my mobile. I switch it on. It’s on soundless. I text Daniel. He hates that I insist on doing this, but I can’t use those high-tech earpieces to communicate, like the rest of them. Also, I dislike making unnecessary noise when in the possible vicinity of a highly trained killer, and speaking – however softly – tends to be enough for them to go on when wanting to shoot you through the head.  


My thoughts turn to you and I pull them back with all the stubbornness I possess, but not in time to avoid feeling the impact of wishing to have you at my side. Have you aiding me with that gun and steady hand of yours.  


Daniel texts back. A short reply telling me to stay put.  


There’s been no movement, no more arrows.  


I turn my head and look up at the roof’s edge three stories above me. I scan the wall and find the outline I’ve been looking for: that ladder must’ve been what she used to get up there. I pocket my mobile and move quietly up to grab the lower rung and begin my ascent.  


In two days I will have been dead for twelve months.  


I’m not sure of whether I thought it would take me this long to finish it, what I set out to do the moment I realized what Moriarty was actually planning for me, or whether I believed I would have accomplished my goal and would be back in England by now.  


The thought of returning makes my stomach churn with sudden worry. I ignore it resolutely.  


I’ll return in order to break the chain of command that Moriarty left behind. I will put the final nails in the coffin of an organization that has eluded me during my whole career. I’m not going back for any other reason than that. Ms. Little is the final link – the commander of this elite band of killers for hire; the only one with any actual intel to communicate. She will tell me what I need to know. She’s the key.  


I reach the roof. It’s empty.

 

**January 9th**

  


In half an hour. One year ago.  


I sip the whiskey slowly, leaning my head back. I’m seated in a quiet corner of the local pub, thankful to be left alone, nursing the third glass of whiskey I’ve ordered in an hour and beginning to feel the more serious effects of the alcohol. My head is swimming.  


In half an hour. One year ago. The moment that I’m trying to drown in amber and incoherency. It’s such a cliché. Sherlock would tell me so. But then he wouldn’t understand why I’m turning to this cushioning of the head, he would simply choose to disregard or forget, delete the unwanted, unneeded memory taking up space. Or I suppose that should really be: he wouldn’t have understood. Past tense. Sherlock’s actions should be in past tense.  


Mrs. Hudson wanted me to come with her to visit the headstone. I respectfully declined. Whatever I’m feeling I want to feel it by myself. Deal with it on my own terms. Not have to take someone else into consideration. It’s how I’ve felt ever since his departure. That’s why I didn’t stay with Mike when he offered after the funeral – I chose the hotel room. It’s why Audrey isn’t here. Why I still haven’t spoken to her about him at all. These feelings; the weight of them is mine to bear. And it’s private.  


I down the rest of the whiskey and raise my hand to the waitress.  


**May 18th**

  


The nightmare is undefined and doesn’t leave any images behind, only a feeling that Sherlock’s in immediate danger and I can’t get to him. I’ll wake slowly, with the panic like nails in my chest; or I’ll wake with a start, breath caught in my throat – but all I’m left with is the powerlessness I’ve felt at not reaching him in time, knowing that I could have stopped it and saved his life.  


I’ve had this nightmare a handful of times over the past few months and now, lying in my bed, alone, trying to calm my raging pulse, feeling clammy from the cold sweat, I’m reminded of what it was like when I came back from Afghanistan: that same sensation of meaninglessness that often overcame me then has begun to creep back into me lately.  


_You’re not haunted by the war, Dr. Watson – you miss it._  


I do miss it. I miss him. It doesn’t seem to want to let up, this missing him. There’s always something to remind me of him. Something that I see that makes me want to talk to him and tell him about it, ask his opinion.  


I walk through my darkened flat, into the small kitchen, putting a kettle on. I’m wide awake now. The strong notion that my friend is somewhere and needs my help is like a scalpel along my spine – precise and paralyzing.  


He’s not alive, I tell myself. He’s not alive; he’s not alive; he’s not alive.  


It’s not that I’m wallowing. I’ve forced myself into this new everyday with everything that entails, but whenever the memories surface it’s like a fist in my ribs and I can’t simply ignore it, the hurt lingers for a while, and though it doesn’t bruise the way it did a year ago, it doesn’t simply fade away either. And this confusing hope – which I’ve managed to, if not completely smother, then at least bury – scratches for my awareness of it.  


Residual guilt, my therapist would call it – this nightmare and all its repercussions. Whatever blame I place on myself for not being able to see that Sherlock was acting differently throughout that whole case. He was subdued, contemplative, introverted. He shut me out. He knew. I know he knew. Of course he knew. Sherlock was always ten steps ahead of everyone and Moriarty’s ingenuity wouldn’t have been enough. Sherlock went up on that roof to die and some time ago I began to think that it was a sacrifice.  


Why else would he have done it? Why else would he have lied to me? Why else would he have tried to convince me that he was a fraud? Moriarty wanted to kill him, but more than that he wanted him ruined. Not even the memory was to be allowed to survive him. And Sherlock had to play along because of some hold over him. I’ve turned it over in my mind for over a year, but whenever I land on the possibility that Moriarty threatened my life, I have to shut the thought process down because I can’t... I can’t.  


I bring the tea into the sitting room, sinking down in my chair and resting my head back, looking up at the ceiling.  


Why is it so impossible for me to put him to rest?  


I move my head to look at the shelf where his violin is resting: mute and abandoned.  


I rise and retrieve it, taking my seat again before placing the lithe body of the instrument against my chest. I begin to pluck at the strings without it making any kind of melody – only sound. It’s a well-known sound. He would probably frown at me, his hand shooting out, beckoning for his instrument back, for me to stop tormenting it; his head tilting ever so slightly when I refuse, just to see his reaction, and then he’d stare me down until I’d finally relent, too self-conscious under his study. I would release it back into his care and he would have it sing.  


I stop my plucking, consider smashing the piece of worked wood against the fireplace, but decide against it, returning it to its shelf, leaving the tea to turn cold as I head back to bed.

  
**June 6th**

  


Audrey is laughing out loud at something silly on the telly while I’m reading the paper and I look over at her where I’m sitting at her tiny kitchen table. Her hair is longer and dyed a dark brown instead of the jet-black she sported when I first met her.  


We’ve barely been to my flat since we started seeing each other and we’ve spent only a handful of nights together there. I don’t know why, really, except that I like her place better. There’s heart here, there’s life and a steadiness to it that I don’t feel in my new home. My flat is empty, a void where I merely go to sleep from time to time.  


I’ve taken over a drawer here, and a few hangers in the closet; my toothbrush is here, my robe is here, I bring my laptop and I stay over most nights. In a sense I’m living here, unofficially. It has felt natural. We’ve eased into each other’s company and I’m glad for it. The lacking of whatever I thought I needed from this relationship a few months back doesn’t bother me in the same way anymore: she’s lovely. That’s all I really need.  


She laughs again. It’s like a low-throated murmur that bursts into something not far from a cackle of pure joy and a wave of tenderness rises through me. So I put the paper down, I rise and walk over to her, interrupting her laughter by kissing her deeply.  


“Hey,” she smiles with a nod at the television, “do you mind? I’m trying to watch that.”  


I smirk.  


“You’re amazing, have I told you that lately?”  


“No, sir,” she smirks.  


She kisses me again and I crawl ungraciously onto the sofa with her, getting us into a comfortable position as I rest my head on her chest, her arms around me and I close my eyes.  


I am safe here. I can stay here.

**June 15th**

  


_The Times_ is reporting on a strange murder case where the victim was found shot through the head in a locked room five stories up, but no bullet can be found.  


I’ve become fond of reading articles on crimes in the mid-stages of being solved, mulling over possible scenarios, wondering what Sherlock would have made of them, knowing from the first sentence if they would have interested him or not. This murder I think would have caught his attention. Lestrade has been interviewed. I haven’t spoken to him in a while. We’ve both been busy.  


I finish my coffee, for once seated in the kitchen of my own flat – Audrey is away, looking at a rock formation in Scotland for the thesis she’s begun researching. She’s been busy the past few weeks. I’ll give her a call after work before I’m meeting up with Mike. We’re going to The Green Man for a pint or two.  


I glance at my watch and rise as I realize I’m most likely going to be late for work.

**July 25th**

  


The bank is filled with screaming people, terrified at the gunshots that were just exchanged. Two bystanders were injured. A man and a woman. They’ll survive. Other than this the confrontation went smoothly.  


I feel the adrenaline pumping through my veins as I watch Daniel handcuff Ms. Little and I almost turn to let my eyes search for yours, for some reason momentarily expecting you to be there to take part in this victory. But you’re not here. You’re somewhere else, far away. I barely register the disappointment before I move in the wake of Daniel and the other agents, escorting our freshly apprehended prisoner out of the bank where we finally cornered her after her inexplicably avoiding us in Denmark.  


Now we have her. It’s finished.  


It will most likely take me another month – there’s the extraction of the prisoner to contend with – but I’m going home.  


I didn’t expect to miss London, but I long for the noises and smells and known streets. The concrete next to cobbles next to asphalt. The glass and steel. The aged stone. That beat of the city that I haven’t experienced anywhere else. I long for it.  
And your face is there. Amidst it all. In the middle of it all. 

**August 19th**

  


The English countryside is stretching itself out a few miles underneath the belly of the private plane I’m currently occupying. I’m the sole traveller as the agents are flying in with an official aircraft, for sake of the record.  


My eyes drink in the view of the patchwork created by neatly arranged fields below me. A lush, green and yellow pattern that appeals to the logical side of my brain: it looks so ordered; nature tamed by man into servitude. But then I’m aware that there are things I can’t see in the stitching, things hiding in the shadows, underneath the branches, beneath the soil; untamed wilderness that is just biding its time. Until it can break through. Until it can run riot.  


I turn my eyes from it, for some reason disturbed by the thought.  


We touch ground. It’s a very hot day and as I step onto the tarmac I’m inclined to remove my jacket, the breeze feeling pleasantly cool through the white cotton of my shirt.  


“Sir,” the driver greets me, standing by a town car that is waiting for me not far from where I’ve just disembarked.  


He touches the brim of his black cap and I give him a nod before I slide into the coolness of leather and air-conditioning, my face dropping at the sight of my brother.  


“Good morning,” he says with a tempered smile.  


I dislike how that expression never manages to reach his eyes. The failure makes it unpleasant on many levels and I’d have him disuse it all together rather than forcing it onto his face merely for the sake of it.  


“Welcome home party?” I ask drily.  


“You have requested to speak with Mona Little,” he says.  


I don’t want to look as interested as I am of what he’ll say to this, but I can feel my whole body honing in on him, as though attempting to make him tell me what I want to hear.  


“It’s against procedure to allow civilians…” he begins, but I can’t stop myself from showing myself weakly eager by interrupting:  


“Give me five minutes with her. It’s all I need.”  


He watches me in thickening silence, his gaze unreadable to me. It often is. It irritates me.  


“And you believe you’ll get a name?” he asks.  


I keep the smile down. Got him.  


“If she has one to give – and she does – then, yes,” I say matter-of-factly.  


He doesn’t doubt me. He never has. I can tell that he is turning his options over in his head. There are none. I’m it. I’m all he’s got. The interrogations of assassin one and two gave nothing and after a few months of exhaustive attempts it was clear that they weren’t simply being stubborn: they had no information to give. They knew nothing more than what orders had been given to them. By Mona Little.  


Mycroft’s people, whichever he’s working with at the moment, have put two men on the inside. They’ve worked for over a year and a half, trying to crack their way into the gang Moriarty left behind, to no great effect and though the organization of the consulting criminal was in disarray for six months after his death, over the past year it has begun to flex its muscles again and they’re lifting heavier and heavier weights with each month that passes. Their power was never questioned, only the new management. And still there is no name to whoever is actually in charge. There are suspicions that have provoked debating, but nothing has been substantiated. As his predecessor, this man takes his privacy very seriously, because it is his safety net.  


I will get his name and I will find him.  


“Fine,” Mycroft sighs. “Five minutes.”  


I can’t keep a crooked smirk off my mouth and look away from him, out the tinted car window.  


**August 20th**

  


The interrogation room is a small, gray cube. It has no window posing as a mirror, but is equipped with state of the art sound surveillance which will pick up the sound of a heart beat if it is on full power. I’m being monitored.  
The elusive Mona Little is seated in the chair opposite mine. A narrow table which has been bolted to the floor separates us. She has dirty-blonde hair that is in need of cutting, a narrow mouth and small eyes, peering at me with some sort of defiance, though she doesn’t seem to know exactly what to make of me.  


Good.  


“Let me guess,” she finally breaks the silence. “You’re here to make me a deal I can’t refuse.”  


I grant her a small smile, observing her. She lifts an eyebrow.  


“So you’re the good guy?” she wonders.  


It brings my smile into a slight smirk as I lean forward.  


“What do you think?” I ask.  


“I think you would’ve been dead now if I hadn’t taken the opportunity to escape instead of sticking around in Copenhagen,” she replies without flinching. “Whatever you’re playing at, it won’t work.”  


My expression hardens.  


“You have a son,” I say.  


Her face doesn’t move, but her eyes betray her immediately. There’s furious protectiveness there in an instant. She would like nothing better than to rip my throat out, I’m sure. I lean an inch closer, eyeing her.  


“I’m playing at making him disappear,” I tell her. “It’s much too late to save yourself, Ms. Little – but do you really think he’ll be safe once the word gets out that you couldn’t stand the pressure of a few delicately phrased questions?”  


She’s turning white and I’m not entirely sure of whether it’s the anger or the worry. Possibly a combination.  


“Do you think he’ll be safe if I actually give you what you want?” she retorts. “They reach everywhere, have people _everywhere_.”  


“Either way it’s a risk,” I reply. “Would you rather risk it with us, or with them?”  


She’s hesitant now, looking at my face for a long moment.  


“You won’t stop them,” she says. “You cut off one head and they grow three more.”  


“I’ll aim for their heart, then,” I retort. “A name,” I add. “Then this is all settled.”  


“You promise… My son will be safe?” she asks.  


“Right as rain,” I say softly, my pulse beginning to quicken with anticipation.  


“I want it in writing. I want papers to sign.”  


“It’s all on record,” I assure her.  


The sound of our voices fills the room as they’re instantly played back over the hidden speakers before being cut off as abruptly as they began.  


My eyes haven’t left hers.  


“The Colonel,” she finally murmurs. “That’s his handle. ...That’s _all_ I know.”  


I rise without pause, heading for the door, opening it and leaving her without another word.


	4. Burn After Reading

I step out of the interrogation room, the door sliding shut behind me. I head down the brightly lit corridor just as another door opens and Mycroft steps out through it; his face is tight, but I walk past him with nothing more than a glance of acknowledgement. I know what he’s going to say before he says it. Of course, he knows this. And of course he has to accost me with it anyway.  


“A son?” he asks my back.  


“Yes,” I say, halting to turn to him. “No need to look so worried. It’s taken care of.”  


“It’s _taken care_ of?” he raises his voice, his composure slipping.  


I’m unimpressed and at my neutral expression he quickly calms himself.  


“When did you learn of the child?” he inquires.  


“A while ago,” I reply.  


“The information could have been used to our advantage earlier,” he remarks. “The smoke needed to bring Ms. Little out of hiding.”  


My lips curl in the shadow of a smile.  


“You actually believe she would have taken your threats seriously? She’d have swallowed poison rather than betray her employers and left you to clean up your own mess; the relocation of the boy would have been on your hands without anything to show for it.”  


His expression shows annoyance: he’s aware I’m right.  


“The boy has been retrieved,” I tell him. “I sent someone I trust. It’s done. And you have your name.”  


“Yes,” he mutters; his eyes in mine. “What now?”  


I turn from him, heading back down the hallway as I reply:  


“I’ll keep you posted.”  


“Sherlock,” he tries, but I ignore him.  


I continue out through the black double doors, which take me into the lobby of the non-descript building where he’s set up a temporary head-quarters for this operation.  


Well, then - what now?  


**August 23rd**

  


“Look at that,” I say.  


It makes Audrey raise her head where she’s tying her trainers in the hall, getting ready to go for a run. I’m located on the sofa, a newspaper on my knee.  


“What?” she asks, eyeing me wonderingly.  


“Another one,” I say, sitting a little straighter.  


“What?” she repeats.  


“Murder, another murder,” I answer. “Didn’t I tell you about that murder? There was an article, God, must be months ago now. He was shot. Through the head. Couldn’t find a bullet.”  


Her nonplussed expression is all the answer I need.  


“I’ll be back in an hour,” she says, blowing me a kiss and disappearing out through the front door.  


I glance up after her, but as she’s already gone I redirect my eyes back on the article.  


Scanning through the words before me I brush away the crumbs sprinkled over half the page, remnants of the scone I’ve just finished off. The report is just a footnote this time, three paragraphs in one of the side columns, but it’s caught my attention in full. Body found; shot through the head; no bullet retrieved; police are looking into possible connection with the murder of Derren Small.  


Another one.  


Sherlock would have found the bullet within three minutes.  


That thought brings on a smirk and I flip the newspaper shut, rising to my feet to get my third scone.  


**August 31st**

  


I walk into the narrow ally, bringing out two fifty pound notes as I go, slowing my step as the scrape of a boot behind me alerts me to the fact that I’m not alone. The knife flashes forward in the following second and I manage to block its trajectory with one arm before I spin around and duck away from the blow aimed by my assailant’s free fist. I put a jab into his side and he winces, dropping his weapon as he clutches at his ribs, his eyes widening as they meet mine.  


“Hello, Bernie,” I say with a smirk at his expression.  


“Blimey, Mr. Holmes,” he stutters. “It’s really you, then. I thought someone was trying to pull some sort of trick and I can’t have that, you know, can’t have that.”  


“I know,” I reassure him, holding up the cash.  


He smells of fried onions and city grit – some things don’t change – and he’s wearing the same worn overcoat as the last time I saw him, but the boots are new. I wonder how he’s been making his money since my cash flow left the streets of London: Bernard is the head of the homeless network.  


“Making good business these days?” I ask, glancing down at his footwear.  


He shrugs.  


“One does what one can,” he replies, reaching out for the two pink bills. “What can I do you for, Mr. Holmes?”  
I arch an eyebrow.  


¤

  


I leave Bernie ten minutes later, knowing that he will follow my instructions to the letter. I have no clear idea of who this Colonel might be, my hunch is too undefined, diffuse; I need facts. I need hard evidence before I can make any kind of move and the Network should be able to provide me with the rumours I need to get at that evidence. If anyone anywhere speaks out of turn about their boss, the Network is bound to hear it.  


I walk from Charlotte Street toward Tottenham Court Road when my eyes catch on something well-known and so unexpected that my heart feels as though it’s going to punch its way through my ribcage.  


You.  


I’ve been purposefully focusing all my faculties on the current problem to be solved, not allowing room for anything else, because I don’t know how to think about you. I don’t know how to think about you without this happening, this reaction, this immediate need to see you, which is precisely the reason why I decided I had to let you go in the first place. This need to see you.  


But my feet now move and the protests I put up are feeble as I walk into the milling people on the sidewalk.  


I’m wearing a grey suit, burgundy shirt, my hair is sleeked back – it’s surprising how much changing such a small feature of my appearance actually helps when not wanting to get spotted – and I doubt you’ll see me anyway, but my heart won’t slow down as my eyes find the back of your head, twenty feet ahead of me. Close. Too close.  


I slow my step. Force myself to slow.  


What am I doing?  


You think I’m dead. You attended my funeral. You watched me fall off a roof. You checked my pulse. You listened to my suicide note.  


I wonder at the flutter in my chest. It is doubt at its most raw and I realize now it’s been festering there for a long time. Even before I fell. Doubt of whether this decision was the right one: to leave, to go away, to free myself of the ties that I have knotted between us. Now it seems the more obvious question to ask myself is how could it be the right decision when those ties are still there, refusing to be undone?  


But for you it may be an entirely different matter, I have to acknowledge this. It’s obvious that all you’ve done so far has been designed to remove yourself from anything related to me. You’ve successfully managed it, I gather. It shouldn’t sting me, but the only balm is the fact that my violin is somewhere in your possession. Then it hits me that it’s quite possible it’s actually not anymore. Or that it’s put away somewhere. Out of sight, out of mind. It’s so long ago, you probably don’t even think about any of it anymore.  


We’ve reached Charing Cross.  


I wonder where you’re going, what your life is like now, if you enjoy work. I’m sure you do, you always did. I managed to pull you away from it. Perhaps I shouldn’t have. Perhaps you’re happy now. Happier. Perhaps I should leave you alone. Disappear into this crowd, shrink out of sight. But I never shrink. That’s the problem.  


And then you turn.  


I see the outline of your jaw line, the ridge of your nose, just before I begin to turn away from you.  


Turn quickly, I tell myself. Disappear.  


¤

  


I’m just about to leave Charing Cross for Leicester Square when something makes me turn my head to look behind me. The profile I can distinctly make out farther down the sidewalk actually makes me start.  
My God.  


My heart jumps into an erratic gallop in my chest and I look hard into the throng of the sidewalk as I begin to hurry my step back the way I just came.  


There. The back of a head, dark locks. Tall. Narrow shoulders.  


I bump into people and neglect to apologize. I manage to make a path in between the seemingly unmoving mass and catch another glimpse that has me rather brusquely pushing past those in my way. It seems endless – the stretch of asphalt with all these feet treading it. I want to shout at them. They’re all in my way. I almost stumble, but find my balance and hurry on, running as fast as I can. I’m so convinced. I can hardly breathe. I feel my hands clench, they’re trembling with the adrenaline shooting through me like hot arrows.  


But then I reach Covent Garden and whatever, whoever I thought I saw is completely disappeared and I slow. I slow to a stop.  


My breathing’s laboured and I take a moment to gather myself together.  


I have to smile.  


Stupid. So stupid.  


“Jesus,” I mutter, glancing at my watch. “And now I’m going to be late,” I add.  


¤

  


My eyes rest on you as you turn and head back the way you came. I’m surprised at how unexpected you spotting me was. I truly didn’t anticipate it at all and I’m suffering the effects of it as my pulse is now elevated beyond control.  
Stay still, I tell myself.  


Your form is disappearing out of sight, swallowed amongst a hundred others, and I once more blatantly disregard the voice of reason as I follow. I have to follow.  


I keep myself as inconspicuous as possible, but I soon realize I needn’t bother: this time you don’t turn around. You seem to have a fixed destination; I can tell by the way you carry yourself – clear purpose, no more distractions. You’re running late.  


I’ve always counted on my brain to be my foremost guide. The knowledge collected there has served me infallibly in situations when I’ve had to draw from it, but I grow confused when it comes to you. I understand the friendship I share with you is something I’ve never experienced before and perhaps that’s why I’ve had such a hard time turning away from it, but this relief I feel at resting my eyes on your form again is something needful. It’s so completely unwonted that I don’t know what to make of it.  


I follow you to Trafalgar Square where I loiter by the west corner of the National Gallery, watching a young woman rise off the steps with a welcoming smile.  


My eyes widen when your lips meet hers in a kiss and something burns itself through my insides that almost pushes me to interfere, to announce my presence, to have your unpolluted attention. I stay back, however; getting rid of the impulse as I take in your body language: relaxed. You laugh at something the woman says before you nod, clasping her hand with yours as you head up the stairs of the Gallery.  


Soon you’re gone and the burning has left me scathed.  


How could I not have anticipated a woman? Of course you’d have a woman.  


Why do I feel as though I’ve been clobbered with something heavy?  


I turn and head back toward Piccadilly.  


“Wow, dude, you look exactly like...” a short man in leather jacket begins and I interrupt him with a friendly:  


“Hear it all the time, mate,” before I cross Leicester Square, swiftly leaving him behind.  


¤

  


“Are you alright?” Audrey asks me as we walk to the National Dining Rooms.  


“Yeah, fine,” I smile at her.  


Her hand is small in mine and a warm, even though summer has begun to drain away over the past few days.  


“Why do you ask?” I add.  


“You just looked a bit, you know, dear-caught-in-headlights,” she answers as we stop and wait to be seated.  


I smile at her again, shaking my head, my mind drifting to that spectre on the sidewalk. It sends goose bumps up my arms and as we’re shown to our table my eyes drift to the large windows and the sky beyond it.  


¤

  


The scent of high class take-out fills the dining room of Mycroft’s townhouse. He’s gotten rid of the boxes and put the food on actual serving dishes. He’s set the table. There’s wine. It makes the corners of my mouth tweak into a smile.  


He would have been appalled at how you and I would’ve eaten: straight out of the boxes using those cheap chopsticks that are always included and not discriminating on whom is eating what and when, we always simply dug in, taking turns at having a bite out of each box.  


Your shared kiss with the stranger earlier flashes through my mind and I lift my eyebrows to get rid of it.  


“Shall we?” Mycroft asks.  


He begins to plate his food, but I merely watch. I’m not hungry. He looks quietly disapproving, but says nothing.  


“You’re unusually quiet,” he remarks, beginning to eat.  


“Am I?” I return.  


He gives me an impatient glare, has a sip of his wine, putting the glass down with something a little more earnest in his gaze as he says:  


“Is it wise?”  


I give him a wondering look.  


“To approach Doctor Watson after so much time has passed,” he elaborates.  


“What do you care?” I ask pointedly.  


Mycroft allows himself a tart smile, observing me. I decidedly ignore him, but then he reaches over to retrieve something off the chair closest to him and it lands with a thud on the table, sliding a few inches before coming to a stop within reach of me. It’s a fairly thick dossier. I furrow my brow.  


“I told you we’d keep an eye on him,” Mycroft says.  


I can sense the challenge behind both the gesture and his tone. He’s curious to see how I’m going to handle this new move of his. He expects it will tell him something. Something about me, I suspect; about my valuing you higher than I would ever actually admit to anyone, least of all my brother; about my interest in what you have spent your time doing since I’ve been gone.  


I let my eyes linger for a brief second on the dossier before I move them into Mycroft’s.  


I’m not reaching for the information.  


It’s enough of a statement.  


I could swear there’s slight disappointment on my brother’s face, as though he was expecting to rattle me.  


“You mentioned something about a debriefing,” I now say and he nods.  


“Yes. I have some follow up questions about what happened in Gdansk.”  


My knuckles were sore for a week.  


“I’ve given a statement.”  


Mishka Stromonov. I injured him badly. The mouth of his rifle had been aimed at your head.  


“There are broken bones that haven’t been accounted for.”  


“Oh,” I sigh. “Those.”  


The fork pauses on the way to Mycroft’s mouth and he’s once more reproachful. I glance away from him disinterestedly.  


An hour later he rises, leaving the dishes for the cleaners who come in the morning. He bids me goodnight and I grant him a nod in return, the tedium of going through every moment I spent in the presence of Stromanov finally being over with.  
I sit in my chair, watching Mycroft go, my jaws clenched. Once he’s left, my eyes drift to the dossier still lying on the table.  
I hesitate for a moment, a short one, before I get to my feet and swipe its weight into my hand, walking in the wake of my brother as I head for the front door.  


**September 16th**

  


“John?”  


“Hmh?”  


Audrey is looking partly amused, partly worried as she eyes me.  


“I’ve said your name four times and you’ve barely reacted.” There’s a slight pause before she adds: “What were you thinking about?”  


I know why the hesitation in her tone is there: she probably already has an idea of who I was thinking of and she’s unsure of whether she wants to have this discussion now. The truth is I’m even less inclined to have it now than I would’ve been a month ago, when I at least had begun to think that there was a possibility I was coming to terms with this vacancy in my life; but over these past few weeks I haven’t been able to get that sighting in Charing Cross out of my head. It keeps coming back to me as though my mind has been set on a loop and there’s no way to break out of this new pattern.  


And I can’t tell her that. I can’t tell her that I’m too distracted to plan for our one year anniversary. One year. I have been with her for a year and she’s been patient with me. I suppose after six months she realized I wasn’t actually going anywhere and so she allowed me room in her life. I greedily took it and now...  


I’m back where I was a year and a half ago.  


The anxiety in my chest is almost painful.  


Why can’t I put him to rest?  


I look at Audrey and reply to her question:  


“I was thinking that maybe we should take a trip.”  


“A trip?”  


“Yeah. Get out of London for a few nights. Might do us some good. What do you think?”  


Her face lights up at the idea and she immediately begins to list places where we could go. Dublin, perhaps? Or somewhere in Scotland. Or even somewhere along the coast. The Isle of Wight is supposed to be lovely this time of year. Or perhaps we should go to some small Bed and Breakfast somewhere?  


I try to listen – I really make an effort – as I discard the notion that I’m running away.  


**September 18th**

  


I’m occupying a small room provided by Mycroft in a suburban part of the city where no tourist ever goes and nothing out of the ordinary ever happens. It’s tranquillity in its most manufactured: the only inhabitants of its well-groomed streets are never-present workaholics and their estranged families. I have my own entrance and may come and go as I please. I never see the people who actually own the townhouse, which this small room is part of, and they never see me. I am so tired of living out of a suitcase.  


There’s a surreptitious knock on the door; my lips quirk up in a small smile at the sound of it before I tell Bernie to come in. He does, shuffling his feet hurriedly and closing the door behind him with a loud bang.  


He has a slight case of paranoia.  


“I thought I saw a man in sunglasses staring at me,” Bernie practically gasps, leaning forward to peer out through the window next to the door. “You know them under covers always use sunglasses.”  


“Impressive. You saw his eyes through the glasses, I take it?” I inquire.  


Bernie pauses for a moment, contemplating, before he replies:  


“His glasses were bloody well staring.”  


“Bernie,” I say impatiently.  


He snaps out of it at the look I give him and nods slowly a few times before he brings out a folded note. He hands it over to me almost reverently.  


“Had to go through hellfire to get you that, I did,” he assures me. “Or, well, Josie got it from Alan got it from Gustav who said he got it from Lola, but I sincerely doubt that. Lola’s been dead these ten years and-...”  


“Thank you, the note will suffice,” I interrupt him.  


He raises his eyebrows at my curtness, but doesn’t argue. I get another fifty pound bill and hand it to him before I usher him out and close the door behind him. I read the note and can’t suppress a wide smile as it confirms what I had already begun to suspect. Still, no proof, and if I’m right, which I undoubtedly am, this will not be an easy nut to crack.  


I don’t hesitate as I walk up to the small, mundane desk – it really is a horrible room – and pick up my mobile. I write a text and send it off, noticing the softest tremor in my hand when I place the phone back on the table.  


¤

  


Audrey comes into her bedroom as I’m wrapping a bathrobe around me, my phone in her hand. I take it from her with a slight smile, which she returns.  


“Got a text,” she explains as she heads out the door again.  


I push the button to open it and feel a soft frown wrinkle my brow as I read the short message.  


_Cemetery. Nine am. Bring flowers._

  


The number’s blocked. What the hell?  


My mind begins to run over possible sources. It could be an old client. Could possibly even be a new client. But I haven’t been in the business of solving crimes for almost a year and a half, who would approach me now? Could be a trap of some sort. But who would want to kidnap me? Why would anyone think it would actually serve them to do anything at all to me?  


Could it be some kind of a joke? A prank of some sort? That seems the most plausible. Some teenagers kidding around. For a second I feel fury rise inside of me, but then it quickly passes as my eyes rest on the message. I grow aware of how I instinctively know which cemetery it’s referring to. I take in the cut-off sentence structure and the order, which I can sense somewhere behind it, to follow the simple instructions. And suddenly my hand begins to shake.  


Can’t be.  


I feel a wave of nausea rise and have to sit down heavily on the edge of the bed. Shivers of misgivings are running up my back, making me feel cold and uncomfortable where I was moments ago warmed by the shower.  


Stop it, I tell myself. Just _stop_ it.  


The ghost in the street a week ago returns to me as though I’m back in the moment when I saw him. My sight is blurring with the sudden emotion and I grow annoyed with myself, clutching my mobile tightly in one hand as I dig away the wetness with the fingers of the other, straightening my back and looking down at the display defiantly.  


Can’t be.  


But the hope won’t die away quite so easily, not when it’s grown from ember to flame once more. It’s suddenly wafting its heat through me as strong as it ever has been.  


If there was one thing I learned in the company of my friend it was to expect the alarmingly unexpected, especially when it came to what he was capable of. Brushing off the dirt of his own grave seems trivial in comparison to some of the other things I’ve witnessed him do.  


I’m not going, I think stubbornly, delicately placing the phone on the nightstand, unable to take my eyes off it, waiting for another message, for something encouraging. For a call to arms.  


I’m not going.  


It’s not him.  


I am not going.


	5. To Be Resurrected

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big, warm thank you to LoveBug54, Sioux and teamjhw for taking a moment to leave their thoughts on chapter one. I'm grateful, it means a lot! Here are chapter five and six - hope you'll enjoy them! 
> 
> Annie.

**Chapter Five**

**September 19th**

  


The flowers rest on my lap. I’m in a cab and have been for half an hour. It takes fifty minutes to get to the cemetery. The flowers are small and white. I’ve no idea what they are, I thought they looked simple and clean and I felt a need for something like that, resting my eyes on something like that to keep my thoughts from running away with me again. They keep doing that. I’ve barely slept, but I’m not tired. I feel more awake than I have in months.  


My palms are sweaty.  


We’ve left the city a while ago and outside the window the countryside is green and broad and spread out on every side. There’s a dark green line of forest on the horizon and above it there’s sky. I wonder why my eyes keep drifting to that sky, but then I suddenly have the image of his coat moving in the wind where he’s standing silhouetted against those bleak winter clouds on that ledge about to fall and I close my eyes against the memory.  


I haven’t let it in for a very long time.  


My pulse is oddly calm. It must belong to the part of me that is being practical and still cannot believe I’m actually doing this. It does seem I’m running a fool’s errand, but no matter how impossible it is that this will actually lead me anywhere at all, I’d rather be a fool at the end of it than wonder for the rest of my days if I missed something by staying away.  


Even though I’ve made the decision already to see this through, as the cab pulls up to let me out I feel I may very well be on the brink of some sort of meltdown – my thoughts are singeing themselves against the heat of what might be about to be revealed to me.  


I exit the cab. There’s the old parish in red brick, there are the pathways I wandered briskly that day, a lifetime ago.  
Yesterday.  


I’m attacked by that same overwhelming sadness that I felt as I turned my back on his name to leave it behind. Leaving the box in the earth behind. I could never see him in it. I could only see it empty. I couldn’t believe. For such a long time I didn’t want to believe that he was gone. And now I’m standing here, on this patch of grass, in sunlight obscured by a thin veiling of clouds, a nip in the air, just as it was that day, and there is the impossible notion that I may have been right in all my refusals, in all my disbeliefs.  


_One more miracle, Sherlock, for me._  


The cab leaves and I listen to its tyres on the driveway as it disappears towards the opened gates in the near distance. Once it’s gone I’m left in the quiet. A bird sings somewhere close by, but then stops abruptly, as though having been told to hush. The thought sends a trembling smile onto my mouth.  


The cemetery surrounds me. It’s big. I’m grateful, for some reason. I feel weak and realize I’m afraid. This is definite – either I am a fool or I’m proven right; there’s no middle ground. And I’m afraid of being wrong; I’m afraid of facing the slab of black marble, the gilded letters, and having to leave him behind definitely. I grow hesitant. Is it better to wonder? Is it better to allow the hope at least a flicker?  


Insanity.  


I force my legs to move forward across the grass and onto the trodden ground that makes a path leading to the grave. Once I’m moving I begin to feel a little better. It will only take a few more paces for me to get the headstone in my line of sight. It will still be far off, but once I can finally see it I know every last shred of hesitation will be gone. I’ll reconcile myself to this. I should have come here a long time ago, really. This is what I need. I haven’t been able to properly say goodbye. This trip isn’t about answers: it’s about finally letting him go.  


And then my step slows as I come to a halt.  


The tree is the same, it’s branches reaching perhaps a little farther, sheltering the place where he’s buried, the patch of soil that was dug up to put him in it. And I can see the outline of the headstone, but what’s stopped me in my tracks is the man casually seated on top of it.  


His back is to me, his narrow shoulders relaxed underneath the black fabric of his coat, the dark locks are thick around his head and unmistakable. Unmistakable.  


My God.  


I suddenly feel faint and have to lean forward, hands on my knees as black dots begin to dance before my eyes. The shock sweeps its broad strokes through me and I clench my hand around the cellophane of the flowers as I take a deep breath to steady myself.  


My God.  


¤

I sit in wait of you, knowing you won’t be late – it’s two minutes to nine. I’ve been here for fifteen minutes, taking in the scenery, remembering the last time I was here, standing in the tree line to my right: hidden. You spoke to me then, to this marking on which I’m sitting and I have wondered from time to time what it was that you said. You were sad, of course – that’s only natural – but I know you well enough to conclude that you wouldn’t have spoken to this inanimate piece of memorabilia if you hadn’t felt a real urge to. What could have been so important?  


One minute to nine and suddenly my pulse begins to quicken and within a split second I’m feeling just how nervous I am over seeing you, over what you’ll say and how you’ll react. Quite possibly you’ll have no interest in me at all anymore, in knowing me or listening to me or following me. Quite possibly you’ll wish me luck and turn away, leave to go back to that other life you’ve managed to build for yourself in my absence. Perhaps you’ll choose it because why shouldn’t you? It would be logical. Except for the fact that I need you with me.  


Then I hear the soft tread of feet behind me and I have to smile to myself – it’s nine o’clock.  


¤

  


The shock has made me giddy.  


Or is it the sense of vindication at I knew it all along, at how my not being able to release him was all to do with this moment coming, knowing that it was coming somewhere in some improbable part of me?  


Or is it possibly the relief spreading feathered wings, soothing away the heartache that he left behind, stroking away the remaining bruises?  


Or is it the happiness clearing out the threaded nest of grief in my chest? This remarkable sense of elation means it has no place within me anymore: the sorrows point of origin has been nullified at seeing him seated like a victor on his own tomb.  


My God.  


I stop a good few paces away from him, somewhere apprehensive that approaching him will make him turn into vapour.  


He knows I’m here, I can tell by his slightly pulling his shoulders back. Then he speaks and at the sound of that familiar voice the reality of it begins to sink in. My pulse is racing in a moment, but my hands are steady. He doesn’t turn around.  


“This really is a depressing view, isn’t it?”  


I have to smile a small smile.  


“Well, you’re turned the wrong way around, aren’t you?”  


He moves his head, a slight smirk on his lips. Then he finally meets my gaze and I’m amazed. Has he been gone for months? Have I dreamed it all? It’s as though I saw him an hour ago at Baker Street and he simply asked me to run an errand before meeting him here. It seems unfathomable that so much has happened since I last rested my eyes on him.  


“You’re thinner,” he comments.  


I take him in for a moment: his face, his form, his attire; and offer him a slight smile as I retort:  


“And you’ve not changed a bit.”  


His face softens and I get the sense that there’s relief there, but then he gets to his feet, his tall frame as commanding as ever as his expression turns determined. Within an instant I’m in his mindset.  


It is strange how he’s always seemed to focus me: whenever he’s walked into a space wearing that expression I’ve known precisely what’s expected of me. Perhaps that’s the simple reason to why I’ve felt so misplaced without his company. And why I now feel more myself than I have since his departure.  


I realize I still have the flowers in my hand and I glance down at them before meeting his gaze with a slightly wondering expression, saying:  


“Take it these aren’t for you?”  


That makes him smile a crooked smile and the show of amusement sends something warm pouring itself through me.  


“Will you come with me?” he wonders. “To deliver them,” he adds, eyebrows slightly raised and I could swear there’s something hopeful in his voice.  


I smile as an answer and he returns it briefly, turning and leading the way through the rows of headstones. We walk towards a shaded area where the trees stand more closely together and the headstones are scarcer – their dates all of the more recent past. My mind is reeling as my eyes rest on his back; I feel like I could literally lift a truck and toss it a hundred feet and I wonder how long the feeling will last.  


The answer comes sooner than I would have thought as the shade from the trees makes the air cooler and he reaches for his collar, my eyes widening into a stare as he flips it up. There is such an ease about the gesture that the questions begin to hoard together in my head; the notion of strength, of control, leaving me.  


The things I want to know are too sprawling and so I begin with the most pressing:  


“Where are we going?”  


“Almost there,” he replies just as a fresh grave comes into our line of sight.  


It’s a dark rectangle of soil in the grass, with bouquets of condolence sitting all around it, and I draw the conclusion that the funeral must have been only a day or so before. He stalks up to it and begins to circle it, his eyes scanning the flowers. I frown a little at him; then I notice the name on the headstone: Eric Miller. I recognize it. It was in the paper not long ago. Jesus.  


“He was shot,” I say.  


“Clean; through the head; no bullet, apparently, but you know how easy it is to miss the important details when you’re looking too hard for them.”  


“He’s the third,” I murmur.  


Sherlock looks appreciative.  


“Been reading about it, then?”  


He doesn’t seem fazed at all about showing up like this, about seeing me again, and I’m unsure of how to react to that.  


“Hard to miss,” I reply, for some reason suddenly self-conscious about my taking an interest.  


His movements slow as his eyes narrow. He leans forward, clearly reading off of one of the bouquets’ cards, and looks satisfied as he straightens up again, giving a nod to the flowers I’m still holding, indicating I should choose a spot for them.  


I lean down and place them with the others.  


“Come,” he says, heading onto the nearby path.  


I stand still for a moment, watching him go. His stride is long and purposeful, his mind clearly set on a target that is as obscure to me as it ever was. However, I’m soon following in his footsteps, apparently still unable not to do as he asks of me without hesitation. Oddly enough it’s comforting, a touchstone of instinct in something that is making my head slowly, but surely, begin to spin with wonder.  


He glances back at me as I join him on the path, a step or so behind him.  


“You have questions,” he says simply.  


I do. The two biggest questions out of all the other ones vying for attention feel impossible to ask: why has he stayed away and why has he returned? Because with those comes the accompanying question of: do I want to hear his answers?  


I don’t want to hear how it was an easy choice to leave; how he’s had adventures to keep him busy; how he saw a good chance of getting out of England for a bit. And I don’t want to know that he’s back for a time, but that he’ll be off again soon.  


My heart grows heavy with worry.  


“Where have you been?” I finally inquire.  


“Better to ask what I’ve been doing; the list of places is long and, to be perfectly honest, really boring.”  


“Fine – what’ve you been doing?”  


He glances at me before stating in a light tone:  


“Well, after I’d journeyed through Europe for a while I went to Asia, where I visited the sights and realized perhaps I should start a travel-blog – they’re so popular these days – and so I got to working on putting down my observations, painstaking business; you might’ve read about my discoveries – they were rather gripping, if I do say so myself. They’re all collected on sigersongoesabroad.com...” He pauses, eyes in mine and I know I look annoyed because he grows impatient with me. “What do you _think_ I’ve been doing?” he demands, halting and making me stop as well.  


“I have no idea,” I reply earnestly.  


The sunlight catches on the roof of the cab, pulling up in front of the parish not that much farther ahead. I look over at it, somehow unable to keep my eyes in his.  


“Moriarty was going to have you killed,” he then says. “I’ve been tracking the people he hired. They’ve been neutralized, but obviously there’s more to be done. I’ll need your help.”  


I’ve barely heard anything he’s said past the confirmation that my fears have been well-founded: he fell for my sake. I hadn’t thought it would come quite as such a sideways blow, but it does. I meet his gaze again and feel gratitude at the fact that he didn’t actually die in order to save me – that he found a way to stay alive through it all.  


“John?”  


His voice brings me out of the reverie and I look at him with an intense need to make him understand how glad I am that he’s returned. That he’s sought me out. That he’s not forgotten me. The best way to do it is simple and close at hand. I ask:  


“So what exactly is this ‘more’ that’s to be done?”  


I lead the way towards the cab and it’s his turn to watch me go. When I turn my head back to him he’s wearing a soft crinkle between his eyebrows and I’m not sure why it’s there – was he worried I would turn him down? Then it smoothes and he’s next to me in a few paces, reaching out and opening the cab door, allowing me to get in before sliding in next to me, slamming the door shut and giving the cabbie instructions for St. Bartholomew’s hospital.  


¤

  


He goes contemplative on the ride back to the city, mutely staring out the window in a manner so familiar to me that I don’t even reflect on it; his silences never bothered me and I’m too caught in the maelstrom of my own mind to linger on what might be going through his.  


It isn’t until my eyes drift to him that I remember my cab ride to the cemetery – alone. And the fact that he’s seated next to me seems suddenly so unbelievable that I almost reach out a hand to touch his arm, just to make certain he’s actually physically there and that I haven’t finally lost it completely. I deter the urge, however, and simply say:  


“Sherlock?”  


“Mh,” he responds, not looking at me.  


I realize I mostly wanted to say his name out loud, have my mouth create the sound of it, allow my ears to hear it, and now I’m left with not knowing what to continue with. Where can I begin this conversation?  


I’ve had it with him in my head many times – what I would say if I got the chance to see him one more time, all the things I never told him, but now it seems almost silly to voice my thoughts to him because he’s not a broken body on the ground anymore. He would probably barely listen to me anyway: he would lend me half an ear and give me one of those brief smiles as thanks before cracking on with whatever is under his scrutiny. He would most likely file my sentiments under Unnecessary and delete them from his memory bank all together.  


The thought makes me feel a sudden burst of laughter bubble up in my chest and I turn my eyes out the window to contain it. I know it’s simply remnants of the shock I’ve had, all these emotions needing an outlet, but I won’t be able to explain it to him in any sufficient way and I’d rather suppress it, swallow it down, get rid of it. I manage it with effort, clearing my throat lightly.  


“So – Bart’s?” I then wonder.  


It takes another few moments before he turns his head to me.  


“Yes, I need to see some records.”  


“Of the gunshot victims?” His expression turns mildly impressed and I give him a look. “Yes, thank you, your faith in me is overwhelming. I can connect the dots, too, you know.”  


That makes him smirk, turning his eyes out the window again.  


“And the gunshot victims are important why?” I ask, really wanting to hear the answer because I’m as ever growing curious where this is actually headed.  


“We’ll see,” he replies.  


I roll my eyes at his covertness, but then I marvel at how normal this feels. The past eighteen months are fading away into something oblique with such swiftness it really should startle me, but this feels too right for it to give me any sense of pause. I am light as a feather, filled with anticipation – whatever is coming I can handle it.  


¤

  


Sherlock pushes open the door of the laboratory at Bart’s, leading the way into the room and I can see Molly where she’s standing by one of the counters, reading from a clipboard, underlining something with a marker. I watch her look up, her eyes widening at the sight of Sherlock, a smile on her mouth as she says:  


“Oh, hello.”  


It doesn’t sound like the surprised exclamation I was anticipating.  


“So you’re here,” she continues, spotting me and having two red blotches appear on her cheeks. “And John is here. With you. I mean, not that he shouldn’t be, because, well... Hello,” she greets, fastening the marker on the clipboard.  


“Hello,” I reply, growing wondering at her clear discomfort.  


“I need to see the post mortem for three men,” Sherlock states briskly. “One dead in June, one in August, one last week.”  


Molly stares at him, her arms clutching the clipboard to her chest, her stance rigid, and then she relaxes in what I take to be defeat.  


“Names?” she asks.  


I watch them interact and it does take me another few seconds to begin to catch on, but then how she didn’t cry at the funeral and the run-in I had with her and her not responding to my texts comes back to me and I begin to understand.  
She declared him dead.  


She’s known. She’s known this whole time that he was alive.  


It’s like shrapnel: tiny pieces of horribly sharp indignation moving through me; the contentment is cut into tatters, the happiness flutters off and all I’m left with is confusion. I don’t know what to feel. _This_ I don’t quite know how to handle.  


I have his eyes on me as Molly leaves the room to find the files he’s requested, but I can’t look at him now. I turn from him instead, walking up to the long counter in the middle of the room, placing a hand, palm down, on the cool surface of it, drawing a soft breath.  


This – right here – was where I first met him.  


I trusted him immediately. I would’ve done anything to protect him. I would have done what he did in order to save my life. I try to hold onto that thought, I try to think of what he did as he sacrificed himself, his reputation, his entire world in order to keep me safe, but it’s not a good enough reason. Not for staying away. Not for not even giving me a hint that he was still out there. Not after making me watch him fall. Making me a recorder for his last words. And in the following moment I feel the anger begin to blacken its way into my chest.  


I look over as Molly comes back into the room with the papers. I watch him grant her a smile, which she happily returns as she hands him what he asked for. She explains something about needing them back and that he can’t take them with him, to which he nods, apparently just barely listening as his eyes scan the information before him. When a slight smirk appears on his mouth before he hands the papers back to her, I understand that whatever he was looking for he must have found.  


“That’s it?” Molly asks, eyebrows raised.  


“That’s it,” he confirms, heading for the door, moving his gaze in mine and I grow aware of how the turmoil inside of me must be showing on my face by how quizzical his expression turns at the sight of it.  


I ignore his reaction, walking up to him as he pulls the door open and heading past him without looking at him. I can’t help the sense of betrayal stinging its way through me. I can’t stop it or push it back because I can’t help thinking about the choices he’s clearly made and the more I consider them the worse the stinging becomes, like a hurtful prickling just underneath my skin.  


We walk down the corridor as so many times before, but now I’m stiff with this need to confront him, uncertain how best to broach the subject. Coming on too strong will mean losing the argument immediately as he’ll shut me down and won’t even try to see it from my point of view, while making too weak a case will have him lose interest, which will make me lose my patience and will lead to me coming on too strong, which in turn lands me right back where I really don’t want to be with this. Because I need an explanation.  


We reach the street and he hails a cab. I open the door, get in and when I still can’t quite bring myself to look at him as we leave the curb for the midday traffic he breaks the silence with:  


“Something wrong?”  


“Don’t,” I merely reply, feeling about ready to snap in two from this strain of trying to understand his actions.  


I can’t understand them.  


“What?” he asks; sounding truly surprised at the shortness in my tone.  


“Just don’t,” I say, giving him a look to leave it before turning my eyes out the window again.  


“Where’re we going?” the cabbie wants to know and I immediately answer:  


“55 Queen Anne Street. Ta.”  


I feel I need some sort of familiar ground. I need to enable myself the tools to tackle this in a way that is as non-detrimental as possible.  


I wonder why he came back now, why he even decided to contact me, what help I can be in this when he hasn’t needed me before now. It’s the most harmful thing in all of this: the horrendous understanding that he didn’t trust me. It feels like some ghastly illusion – this friendship. Perhaps it isn’t what I’ve thought it was.  


“Don’t what?” he now presses and I draw a slow breath, allowing myself a rather shaky exhale before I meet his puzzled gaze.  


“I’m not going to discuss it here,” I reply and I mean it.  


I’m not going to talk about this in the back of a bloody black cab.  


He stares at me for a few moments and I can tell he won’t be able to shut himself up, even with my so obviously drawing a line, and soon enough he inquires:  


“... Discuss what?”  


“ _Sherlock_ ,” I snap and his eyes widen slightly at the reproach before he relents and looks away from me.  


For a moment my eyes catch on the side of his face, the slanting of his cheek, his jaw bone and the soft curve of his mouth as it wears a small pout. He dislikes this, I know that. He can be as obtuse as he wishes, but whenever I show even the slightest sign of discontent with him he turns into a child, one that’s yet to understand why his actions have disappointed or irked. And a lot of the time he doesn’t comprehend what I’m trying to tell him, can’t grasp at why I’m disgruntled; but then there are those rare occasions when something I say actually takes effect.  


I just don’t know which time this will be.  


We arrive at my flat and I get out as he pays the cabbie. He follows me up the steps of the building. I can feel him just behind me as I unlock the door and lead the way inside. He’s quiet. Waiting. Curious, no doubt, about what my new home looks like. I’m fairly sure he would voice his objections to the lighting of the hall, the narrowness of the stairs and the quality of my front door if my silence wasn’t telling him not to.  


He’s growing impatient now. He’s next to me, leaned against the wall beside the door of the flat and I can tell his eyes are on my face, looking for a response. I unlock the door without acknowledging him and leave it open as I head inside.  


“Tea,” I more or less state, heading for the kitchen as I remove my jacket.  


I look over my shoulder before he disappears from my line of sight and I just manage to catch the view of him taking his first steps into this foreign space, clear scepticism on his face.  


“Mh,” he simply utters as a reply to my offer before I hear him close the door behind him.  


¤

  


The flat is smaller than our previously shared accommodations; its white walls lack any paintings, the flat itself noncommittally furnished – you don’t occupy it other than when you have to. There’s an easy chair in front of the small fire place, which is hosting a plate full of small candles in exchange for logs. The candles have barely been lit. There’s a door to the right leading into the kitchen, where I can see there’s a space acting as a makeshift dining room, and before me is a short hallway that would presumably take me into your bedroom, but I step into the sitting room, my eyes going to the built in bookshelf between the two windows overlooking the street.  


On the middle shelf rests my violin.  


Whatever this mood-change is that’s come over you, the sight of the instrument calms me. In the cemetery you removed my worry within seconds, as you’re prone to do, and there was an easing onto common ground that felt effortless on both our parts.  


At least I assumed you felt the same way. I wonder what has changed.  


I wish I knew how to tell you that I’m happy to see you. Tell you that I couldn’t have understood just how happy I would be to see you until the moment you were standing behind me at the cemetery and there was no taking it back – this letting you know I’m alive. And I didn’t want to take it back. I wanted to crash my way back into your life, no matter the damage. Is there damage? Is that why you’re refusing to speak to me?  


I walk across the bare floorboards up to the violin, allowing my fingers to slide down its neck nimbly before clasping it and lifting it to place it under my chin. My eyes take in the empty shelf and I frown.  


“Where’s the bow?” I call out towards the kitchen door.  


“What? Oh. Lost it in the move,” you answer carelessly and I tut to myself, plucking lightly at the strings before sighing and replacing it on its shelf.  


You enter the room with two cups of tea, handing me one and gesturing for me to sit in the easy chair. But that’s your chair. I should have mine. This room is all wrong, too, though I don’t want to express it in so many words since there’s still tension in you. You seem resigned. I dislike it.  


“Sit,” you insist, placing your cup on the mantel piece and retrieving a chair from the kitchen.  


You place it opposite me as I’ve sat down in the armchair against my better judgment. I sip the fennel as I watch you pick up your cup again, blowing on its contents as you have a seat. I think I know why you elected to bring me here – you wanted some sense of privacy – but I’m unsure of what it is you’re expecting of me.  


“So,” you now say, “tell me.”  


I cock an eyebrow.  


“I’d like to hear all of it,” you elaborate. “So, start from the beginning. When did you know what Moriarty was planning?”  


I look at you and feel the worry begin to dissipate. Of course you would want to know the details and naturally this conversation isn’t one for a restaurant or café. I begin to relax.  


“That night. At the journalist’s. When he revealed Richard Brook,” I answer you.  


You nod, thoughtful.  


“And you... what?” you wonder.  


“I realized I would have to counteract or I would lose my life,” I reply matter-of-factly.  


“And you found a way to do that?”  


“Yes,” I give a nod. “I turned to Molly for assistance and, naturally, Mycroft was of some use as he provided the people needed to secure that an operation of that magnitude went off without a hitch – he only deals with the best in their fields. It was quite simple – as I was standing on the roof, below me in the street there were...”  


“No, I don’t need the mechanics of it,” you interrupt and there’s a tone in your voice I don’t think I’ve ever heard before. “I was there, I saw, I remember,” you add and there it is again: pain.  


You look down at your tea and the hurt is all over your face. It takes me a little off guard as I’ve been convinced you’ve made every effort to move on. However, the moment still seems raw to you and I frown lightly at it.  


“You said Moriarty threatened my life,” you push on.  


“Mh. Yours and Mrs. Hudson’s and Lestrade’s,” I confirm. “Three hit-men – well, to be fair, one was a woman – all of them now imprisoned and awaiting trial. Except Stromanov, actually. He was sentenced a month ago.”  


“And you what, you hunted them down? Why?”  


“As a statement,” I clarify.  


“To whom?”  


“Their employers,” I answer.  


“And now their employers will go out and get some other guns for hire, isn’t that how it works?” you inquire, your forehead wrinkling at the thought.  


“No.”  


“It’s not how it works?”  


“No,” I repeat. “The employers will most likely choose not to take any action where their employees are concerned: they’re a dime a dozen, no retribution needed. As far as Moriarty’s great plans for me, I believe they couldn’t care less. They are, however, now fairly certain that I’m still alive. And if they’re not, they soon will be.”  


Your eyebrows rise at that proclamation.  


“And that’s clever why?” you wonder. “They know you’re alive, you don’t think they’ll come after you?”  


“No.”  


You shake your head with a sigh, the annoyance growing on you as you lean back on the chair, eyeing me.  


“They won’t?”  


“They’ve learned from Moriarty’s mistakes. On top of which I’ve just shown them exactly how good I am at what I do. They’ll keep a safe distance.”  


“Well, good luck to them. There are no safe distances with you,” you mutter, putting the cup on the floor before you lean forward with your elbows on your knees as though wanting me to focus on you.  


I do. I look at your face, one that I sometimes think I’ve grown to know better than my own, and I understand that there is something weighing on you in all of this. You just don’t seem to be able to find the words.  


“Why didn’t you contact me?” you then ask, the words simple enough, but the question they form being much too complex for me to even fully comprehend myself.  


I’m staring at you.  


Do I have a good answer for this query?  


“You just said yourself,” you continue, “that whatever threat was there before Moriarty’s death, it’s not there anymore, yeah? ...You stood on that ledge and you told me you were a fake and a liar and for the first time I’m actually thinking I agree with you.”  


There are nails in my stomach. Horrible dread. This has taken such a sudden turn that I wasn’t prepared for it, not at all, and I struggle to find my footing.  


“John,” I try, but you put a hand up with a quick smile of irritation, shaking your head at me.  


“Just answer the question,” you tell me and there’s a warning there.  


I don’t know how to answer it. My silence tips your aggravation into anger and you rise.  


“I can’t believe you’re so self-obsessed that you wouldn’t even stop to consider what state you left us all in. Well, most of us, clearly Mycroft and Molly were fine. Mycroft, Sherlock. He sold you out to Moriarty, for God’s sakes!”  


“I needed him.”  


“Yes, of course you did. Whatever you need you make sure you have and whatever you don’t you just bleeding well throw away, isn’t that how it’s always worked?”  


“I didn’t...” I begin, but I can’t finish the sentence, because I tried to – I tried to throw you away.  


“And what did you think? That we’d shed a few tears and that would be that? Simple and clean. Right? But I know you’ve known loss. You mourned Irene Adler, even if you barely showed it, so don’t try and tell me that you don’t understand this. You left us here to grieve you for more than a year and a bloody half. You left me with what? Do you have any idea how many hours I’ve spent trying to understand why you would kill yourself?”  


“You might as well have had that gun to your head, what was I supposed to do?” I retort.  


“You were supposed to tell me, Sherlock,” you shoot back. “I’m your partner – you’re supposed to include me.”  


“I couldn’t include you in this. Don’t you see?” I demand, hearing something pleading in my voice that’s only ever there when I’m trying to convince you of something. I finish: “If Moriarty had gotten even the smallest hint that it was all rigged you would’ve been dead. I wasn’t about to gamble with your life.”  


“And we’re back to why the hell you didn’t contact me _after_?” you say. “After the funeral. Were you there?”  


I feel my heart beat quicken, but I keep my eyes in yours.  


“Of course,” you give a nod. “Of course you were. Did you speak to Molly that day? Mycroft? Did you have an unofficial-...?”  


“No,” I interrupt. “I didn’t see anyone that day.”  


I watched you, though. And I wanted to join you as you walked away, but I knew I couldn’t. I knew I had to go. I knew I couldn’t have any more distractions, but I kept you with me all the same. You were there with me through it all. But I won’t tell you that. I can’t tell you that.  


“John, whatever I have or haven’t done it shouldn’t matter. There are more important things to consider,” I now tell you, hoping you will listen, hear me. “We have the opportunity to bring down one of the largest criminal organizations in this country.”  


“That’s why you’ve come back?”  


“That’s why I went away,” I reply calmly.  


Your face hardens for a moment as you watch me, and I put my cup down on the floor before I get to my feet as well, standing before you.  


“Would you rather I leave?” I ask.  


It’s an offering of peace. If you tell me to, I will go. Through that simple action I will try and repair the wreckage I’ve clearly managed to cause you, but I would rather stay and rebuild this with you. I think you want me to, though for a moment it looks as though you’re going to answer yes to my question.  


Then your face softens and the anger falls away and I know there’s some sort of clemency there as you reach out a hand.  


“Take off your coat,” you say. “Go on.”  


I remove it, handing it to you, my eyes following you as you walk into the hallway to hang the garment on one of the hooks.  


I reclaim my seat and you come back to take yours again, both of us reaching for our tea as you say:  


“Alright, let’s hear it, then.”  


There’s no trace of animosity in your tone and I wonder what you’ve made of what I’ve told you, what it was that soothed you. I wonder why you always seem to find a way to understand me even though I am quite ill-equipped at promoting it in you. Those thoughts never do me much good, though, and I never linger on them for very long.  


“Hmh?” I now respond.  


“You must have an opinion,” you add with a nod to the room we’re in.  


“It’s charming,” I reply.  


When you smirk it makes me feel almost light-headed with the respite it offers.  


“Could do with a carpet,” I add.  


“Yes,” you agree. “And I had considered putting some bullet holes in the walls, but then this landlord isn’t, unfortunately, as indulgent as Mrs. Hudson.”  


That has me smirking as well and when I catch your gaze there’s a beat of silence before we share a chuckle.  


It makes me think that it will be alright in the end; whatever it is we’re building, whatever shape it takes on this time around we have a good foundation for it. That’s really all that matters. And perhaps I don’t deserve your constant acceptance, but I have it none the less and I appreciate it. I appreciate you now more than I think I ever have because, even with the obvious wounds I’ve inflicted, you’re willing to overlook them in order to step back and view the bigger picture alongside me. It’s what makes you invaluable.  


“Hungry?” I ask you and you grant me another smile.  


“I’ll order Chinese,” you say and rise again, heading into the kitchen, talking as you go: “Got a pretty good one round the corner. Not as good as Ming Chow’s, but not half bad.”  


My mobile buzzes with a text and I get it out of my trouser pocket, reading the short message and getting to my feet.  


_Subject One retrieved. Debriefing in twenty minutes. HQ._  
 _Mycroft_  


“Have to go,” I say, walking into the hall, pulling my coat on as you stop in the kitchen doorway. “I’ll explain on the way,” I add as incentive for you to hurry up, opening the front door in wait for you to get your jacket.  


Soon you’re hurrying passed me and I can’t quite keep a pleased smile off my face as I follow you down the stairs.


	6. In Closed Spaces

****

  


The black cab’s interior encases us. Sherlock gives an address I don’t recognize and we’re off. He sits back, his eyes shining his focus – this trip has a destination that will clearly be of importance and the prospect of sharing another case with him sends my nerves firing with anticipation.  


His reasons for going away are still congealing in my head, forming some sort of cohesive mass which I think I can bring myself to understand as long as I’m given some time. His reasons for staying away are still somewhat undefined, but they’re in there as well and though I may never fully be able to relate my own emotions to them, I realized as I listened to him speak, as I heard him give me the facts and circumstances, that there’s nothing to do but accept them.  


None of his actions were taken with a reflection on how they might affect me and I know this. I know him well enough to understand that it’s not personal. It’s very rarely personal with him. His rudeness, callousness and imperviousness when it comes to the feelings of others are simple side-effects of his intellect wanting to get to the point swiftly, and are almost never used to inflict harm. Except for, of course, when he wants to provoke.  


In fact, I actually find myself wondering how much of his sacrifice was made to ensure that the ones he’s kept close were safe, and how much of it was offered to secure this opportunity he could see rising from it, this opportunity he’s now hell-bent on seizing.  


He grasps what grief is, but not how it can become a part of you that you can’t rationalize away, how it can become a toxin that is addictive to the system because it makes room for reminiscing, making the need to hold onto old memories seem more sanctioned.  


When I found myself bringing up the Adler woman I did think, for a moment, that it might get a reaction from him, but it didn’t. I’ve often wondered about what he felt when he thought she was gone. A part of me suspects that as clearly upset as he was at her death, he was also plagued by the fact that he had failed. Failure is intolerable to him.  


It’s clear to me now, however, that whatever he felt for her he’s let it go. Undoubtedly it was like snapping two fingers – him placing the experience in one of those compartments in his head and leaving it there to grow stale and cobwebbed. No, he could never appreciate exactly how the loss of him crippled me in ways I hadn’t fully realized until a few hours ago, when my eyes got to rest on him again.  


And so, even though I might like to cling to my anger in this instance, even though I might think perhaps I should try to set him straight, I can’t find a way to say the words without sounding needy. If there’s one thing that will appal him it’s me trying to give him a guilty conscience for making a choice that apparently will be for the greater good. And I admit this hurt I feel at him not having taken my emotional state into the equation seems somewhat petty, especially when this hunt he’s been on evidently leads to us putting an end to crimes being committed.  


Besides this, there is also my wanting to enjoy this moment. After all, he has returned and I know he wouldn’t have sought me out, not even out of pure necessity, if it hadn’t been what he wanted. He wants me with him. And if that’s all I’ll ever get, then that’s what I’ll happily take. It’s more than what most are allotted by him.  


He’s impatiently keeping his eyes out the window and I always think, when he wears that expression, that some part of him believes if he could only find the wormhole needed, then he could use that brain of his to speed up the cab and make us arrive where we’re going in the bat of an eyelash.  


I can’t quite resist, but reach out a hand and place it lightly on the sleeve of his coat, his arm taut beneath the fabric and I give it a slight squeeze, having him turn his gaze in mine. He looks wondering.  


“You said you’d explain on the way,” I encourage, removing my touch from him, the feel of his coat still beneath my fingertips: a calming sensation that confirms he’s made of flesh and blood, not air and hopes and enduring images.  


He lifts his eyebrows.  


“So I did,” he acquiesces, but then he grows hesitant, resting his eyes in mine, pursing his lips together briefly before making his decision: “You know there’s organized crime in London, I needn’t go into any detailed descriptions of their undertakings, but there is something I should disclose regarding where this might be headed. I understood early on that Moriarty wasn’t a one-man show. Partly because he’s not the type to play for an empty house, but mostly because his empire was too great to be held without an army.”  


I observe his face as he pauses and then it hits home.  


“And we’re facing that army?”  


“Well,” Sherlock says, “the syndicate, or what you would call it, has had a year of hardships, dissension in the ranks, in-house squabbling over who gets the bigger piece of the pie, but it seems now that someone has taken over Moriarty’s proverbial crown.”  


I narrow my eyes.  


“And you know who it is?”  


He gives me one of his quick smiles, answering:  


“No, I don’t, but I have an idea. Everything points to a ghost. Someone I heard of years ago, but who then vanished. I supposed he’d gone into hiding – with good reason – but these murders, John. They bare his trademark.”  


“Who is he?”  


“The second most dangerous man in London,” Sherlock answers as we pull up to a large warehouse. “Well, with Moriarty gone he’s due an upgrade,” he adds casually before he opens the cab door, waiting for me to get out, slamming it shut behind me and leading the way toward a green-painted side door with a large number 9 in white across it.  


Sherlock stops before it. I glance around, frowning.  


“What…?” I begin when a woman’s voice interrupts me, coming from a hidden speaker somewhere above us.  


“Name?”  


“Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock replies.  


“Code?”  


“908345221-B,” Sherlock answers, glancing at me and cocking an eyebrow at my look before adding: “Mycroft’s idea of a joke.”  


The penny drops at the mention of the other Holmes and I feel myself stiffen at the prospect of coming face to face with the man. I barely spoke to him at the funeral. I carried such anger towards him for months after Sherlock’s departure and in my mind blamed him for everything. It was good to have someone to point my fury and confusion and heartbreak at. I thought I’d let it go, but now those emotions are coming back in full force and I realize I’m still far from forgiving Mycroft for the role he played in those events, no matter what he’s done to aid Sherlock over the past eighteen months.  


“Yes, the Holmes humour is growing on me,” I reply drily to Sherlock’s previous comment and his left cheek creases in a half-smirk as the door opens before he suddenly frowns down at me.  


“You don’t find me funny?” he asks as we step inside.  


“Constantly and for all the wrong reasons,” I answer him and he gives me a look, which I ignore, keeping my own smirk down as we move into a narrow hallway painted white.  


It takes us to a second door and Sherlock isn’t asked to, but looks up into the camera above it. I follow his lead. It doesn’t take long before the door slides noiselessly to the side and we enter a second hallway, this one wider and painted a military green. I turn my head to Sherlock, quizzical.  


“Um, where are we?” I ask.  


“Mycroft’s secret dungeon,” Sherlock replies as two men in uniform come to meet us – clearly to escort us the rest of the way.  


The place doesn’t have that stale smell I’d expected from the exterior. Its scent is that of new walls and fresh carpet and the silence is deafening. I almost expect to hear a scream of pain split it at any second.  


No scream ever comes and we’re shown through a third door, this one made of thick armoured glass, into a large room where metal desks stand bunched together into what looks like an incredibly ordered scrapheap. Neatly dressed men and women sit on metal chairs by the desks, typing on keyboards, their eyes on the impossibly slim computer screens before them. A phone shrills its voice through the quiet and a man answers in a hushed tone. I’m rather amazed at the efficiency and discipline they display. Mycroft really does only hire the best in their fields.  


Through a fourth door we go, a twin to the previous glass one, and then into an elevator where I look from one to the other of our escorts, standing just a step in front of us. My shoulder is almost touching Sherlock’s where we’re positioned behind them and I have the urge to lean against him just to feel the realness of him again, but discard it and instead I mutter.  


“Dungeons don’t have elevators.”  


“Apparently they do,” Sherlock returns.  


“What are we doing here?” I ask just as the doors open and we walk forward again, into another narrow corridor where white-painted doors stand at even intervals.  


“We’re here by invitation,” Sherlock replies.  


We pass one of the doors and since it’s standing open I spot a young man seated on a chair inside a small room. He’s being handed a cup of tea by a slightly older man before the latter places a hand on the younger’s shoulder, as if in reassurance. I’m about to ask Sherlock if he recognizes them, but don’t get the chance as he doesn’t pause until we stop before another door, this one closed.  


“Invitation to what?” I inquire.  


“A debriefing,” Sherlock answers simply before pressing the door handle down and entering the room.  


Debriefing of whom? I wonder.  


¤

  


You enter close behind me. I can sense the inquisitiveness with which you take in the people in the room, trying to get a clear picture from the small amount of information presented to you. I know you can’t read it the way I can and I wonder what conclusions you might draw.  


Mycroft is seated at a large oval table, a file open before him, its contents in three perfect piles arranged in a line in front of him on the table top.  


There are three men sitting around the table apart from my brother: the man on his left wears an ironed charcoal suit, a double-knotted red tie and a wrangled white cotton shirt, his hands are the hands of an office worker and he carries himself like a man who has seen no wars – he thinks himself safe: the most dangerous kind of men there is. The red in his tie declares him as someone who expects everyone’s undivided attention, an exclamation point of colour designed to attract the eye to it, he’s not frightened of taking charge, but thrives on it and quite possibly allows it to go to his head at times. He enjoys power, likes having to think on his feet and is very good at what he does.  


The man to my brother’s right is wearing jeans and a jacket over a slightly faded sweater that should have seen the bottom of a trash-can at least twenty washes ago, his hair needs a cut and he has a day’s shade on his chin – he would be handsome if he didn’t slouch and if the way he can’t keep his fingers still didn’t betray his strained nerves, now he looks like a frightened schoolboy: he is Glenn Marks, or Subject One.  


I know for a fact that he is one of the best agents my brother has to wield, this from how Daniel spoke of him on more than one occasion during our travels. Glenn Marks is tough, unyielding and always ready to rush head-first into any situation and deal with the consequences later. Perfect for the undercover trade where things turn on a dime and you’d better spin with them or you’re sure to lose your footing. But the Glenn Marks before me looks tired and wary and there’s something nervous about him that contradicts everything I’ve heard of him. It makes me wonder what he’s seen.  


The other stranger at the table is wearing a brown tweed jacket over brown corduroy trousers, a knitted vest over a simple, white shirt, a wedding band on his left finger and a rather stricken expression on his face as he gawks at me.  


The man in charcoal is clearly team leader, the commander of the operation we’re here to discuss.  


The tweed, on the other hand, is a misfit in this scenario. He’s prone to long nights of research. He has two cups of coffee next to him and one half emptied before him, evidence that he’s a heavy caffeine addict and further indication that I’m right. The fact that he has no real self-composure, as he can’t keep himself from staring as we take our seats, seems only to underline the fact that he’s more accustomed to books and dimly lit rooms than sitting face to face with people. I meet his gaze, unflinching, and suddenly he bares his teeth in a sheepish grin.  


“Forgive me, Mr. Holmes,” he says. “It’s not every day a man sees a Lazarus, I couldn’t quite bring myself to look away.”  


I smirk before I can hold it down, deciding I rather appreciate the man’s honesty.  


“Now we’re all here,” Mycroft says. “I would like to begin by stating for the record that Glenn Marks has been called in for debriefing after his life was nearly forfeited and he is to be pulled from his assignment after this meeting.”  


I feel your eyes on me, wondering, but my gaze is resting on Glenn Marks.  


After another few official questions for the record: name, date of birth, rank – Mycroft moves onto the meat of the plate and I’m tensing up with expectation.  


“Please state your mission objective,” Mycroft asks.  


When answering the standard questions Glenn Marks’ face went from anxious to expressionless, his slackened cheeks making the circles under his eyes even darker, but now he pulls a hand through the tangle of unwashed hair on his head and sighs heavily.  


“I was supposed to go in and blow a fucking nest of snakes apart,” he grumbles, but catching a hold of himself he straightens up slightly, stating in a rather monotone voice, the words sounding official and rehearsed: “I was sent to infiltrate a cell of organized crime we’ve dubbed the Collective. The agency had had their eyes on this cell for a while, but had found no way to track it or know who might belong to it – all we knew was that it was an important part of a vast syndicate where many strings seemed to knot together. When Jim Moriarty was nice enough to step into the limelight everything changed and through that name we began to be able to map the cell.”  


“This syndicate,” I interrupt and have Glenn Marks’ eyes in mine. “It’s a network of cells.”  


“Yes.”  


“And Moriarty headed this network,” I state without it actually being a question.  


“As you once said, Mr. Holmes: he was a spider,” Glenn Marks quips.  


There’s no humour in his eyes, his face is mirthless, grave – this is no joke to him.  


“And so far you’ve only managed to map one thread of this vast web of his?” I inquire.  


“Given how we only a few years back were fumbling in the dark,” the man in charcoal speaks up, “I should think it a great achievement,” he finishes, reproachful of my lack of awe.  


“You blow up one cell and the network regenerates another one within a few months,” I reply curtly. “You’ve drawn a map that’s completely useless once it’s served its purpose. I wouldn’t call that an achievement, I would call that a colossal waste of time.”  


“To map the network would be impossible,” the charcoal states defensively. “The people in charge of it leave absolutely no traces behind. We don’t even have names, let alone their faces. If we take this cell out we will have access to inside information. People tend to bargain when they’re out of choices. You should know – I heard you used Mona Little’s son against her. They will all have sons or daughters or parents or grandparents or aunties or uncles.”  


“Or cats or dogs,” I fill in, my lips curling in mockery. “You won’t get to the people in charge through the cells. You won’t even get to them by taking down the entire network. As you say, they are nameless, faceless strangers. But you’re not. And you can be sure they’re watching you. Don’t make plans for how best to extract information out of their associates if you don’t think you could handle the same sort of extraction method being applied to you. Do you have a cat? Or a dog, perhaps?”  


“Sherlock, for God’s sake,” Mycroft says, exasperated.  


“You can’t seriously believe that they have eyes on us,” the charcoal says, incredulous.  


I observe him, my face setting into a stony mask and in case my expression isn’t enough to show exactly how serious I am I reply:  


“Aside from the telltale signs: Mr. Marks having lost a stone, his newly developed nervous tick of rubbing his right middle and index finger together and how he sits at the edge of his seat, pretty much prepared to bolt at a moment’s notice from this room, it’s also quite obvious that you wouldn’t pull a man as deeply infiltrated as Mr. Marks off his assignment unless it truly was a matter of life and death. It begs the question: what is the matter? Given the fact that Mr. Marks has been working himself into a position of floor manager for one of the larger casinos in the London Bay area, and taking into account how this position would undoubtedly give him access to all areas of this venue, I should think the matter is that he learned something which spooked him enough to go from someone who would shoot a suspect down in self-defence without ever reflecting over it afterwards to someone who’s breathing is laboured even as he’s been sitting still on a chair for at least twenty-five minutes.  


“You’re wondering what Mr. Marks’ heart rate has to do with you and your little dog – here’s what: Mr. Marks has been in the middle of a group of unscrupulous men and women for over a year. I would think he’s been in situations where he’s seen what they do to those that oppose them, disappoint them or even irk them. And now Mr. Marks has learned that they’ve known about him all along, that they’ve been watching him from the start, that they’ve used him and his colleague – Subject Two is in the room two doors down, for those not aware – to collect information about this operation and that whatever you think you know about them is what they want you to know about them. Mona Little told me ‘they reach everywhere’. I would urge you to have a serious look at your employee screening process.”  


“There is absolutely no way-...” Mycroft insists, but my insistence is sharper when I interrupt him with:  


“Yes – way. They are getting information from someone in this building and they have pieced together their puzzle over at least the past few months. Why the past few months? Alright, it could be longer. It could be from the very beginning of this operation, but they haven’t been organized until, oh, give or take six months ago and whoever is heading the network now is the one with the longest arms. They _are_ watching you.”  


The charcoal is staring at me, looking as though he’s about to tell me off before he directs his gaze on Glenn Marks instead. Everyone else follow suit.  


“Is it true?” the charcoal asks.  


“Well, I was getting to it,” Glenn Marks confirms, his eyes on me, slightly startled. “How the hell did you know?”  


“I didn’t know,” I reply and I can hear you muttering beside me, turning my head to you as I could have sworn you just said ‘I noticed’ under your breath, but you look innocent, scratching something onto the notepad you’ve produced.  


I find it odd that you have it with you, I didn’t notice you retrieving it at your place and for a brief moment I allow myself to believe that you’ve carried it with you all this time, as some sort of keepsake from our days together. I shake the thought out of my head, focusing back on what’s at hand.  


“Do you have a point with this rant?” Mycroft inquires.  


“Yes, I do,” I reply, looking around at all of them as I say: “You’ve lost this battle – you may as well admit defeat. Sending new agents into this cell will not help, at least not unless you can find your leak before you attempt it, and that will undoubtedly take a while. They’re alerted to your presence, they’re aware I’m still alive and that I’ve been hounding down people associated with them, they’ll expect a head on collision. Retreat. Let them see you lick your wounds. Put them at ease. Locate the leak, but allow it to spill more information, only play the game their way and feed them the information you want them to have. Once the heat has cooled down you can begin to plan a proper attack.”  


There are quiet murmurs of agreement from the assembled.  


I can feel Mycroft’s gaze on me, intent and heavy with reservations. I ignore it. I can’t be anything but pleased at the reaction I’ve gotten from the rest of them – it’s exactly what I wanted.  


¤

  


Mycroft places the file he’s carried with him on the slim metal desk, which is standing against one wall of the square room we’ve entered. The only other décor is a shelf filled with blue-backed binders. The lack of natural light in this place oppresses me for some reason, but I glance at Sherlock, standing straight-backed before his brother, and I draw from his focus.  


The notebook is in my hand, clutched there for safety – I keep fearing that Mycroft will, at any moment, tell me to hand it over to him; that I’m not allowed to take his secrets with him. But I want the words I’ve jotted down, the first for such a long time, to be allowed to make the journey with us. All of these familiar tracks we’ve resettled ourselves onto should begin and end with my words describing them, I feel, and I’m perhaps being perversely protective of them, but I don’t want Mycroft to seize them. His meddling has a way of bringing about the end to things.  


I can feel my gaze hardening at the thought as I rest my eyes on him across from me. He looks annoyed. I silently revel in it. In how Sherlock clearly has the upper hand. Always.  


Mycroft’s expression is tight as he observes his brother.  


“I would rather you didn’t play these little head games of yours,” he says evenly, but I can tell his voice might as soon turn to flint. “They can be disorienting to the common man.”  


“And what of your head games?” Sherlock retorts and his tone is sharp, there is no mocking patience there.  


It takes me a little off guard; I hadn’t noticed anything was off between them. Well, apart from the usual tension.  


“Mine?” Mycroft asks, giving a slight smile that makes him look more sly than innocent and I think he’d do better to try and keep his face cold than warm it up with feigned surprise.  


“The man who couldn’t take his eyes off me wasn’t there to hear Glenn Marks – he was there to hear me. Who is he and what did my appearance secure for you?” Sherlock demands.  


Mycroft smirks, leaning against the desk and crossing his arms over his chest.  


“Well spotted,” he commends dryly. “His name is Allen Woodsbridge and he’s come to London from Cambridge to aid us in a matter of some importance. Your appearance secured me his trust, dear brother, as he was convinced you were alive and wouldn’t quit his insisting upon it until I told him he was right. When he then heard you were in London his insisting went into getting to meet you. Now that he has, I expect him to be eagerly attending to the work we’ve set before him.”  


Sherlock studies Mycroft for a beat before he simply says:  


“I see.”  


There is more behind those two words than I can make out and I don’t feel this is the moment to ask him to elaborate. Especially when Mycroft parries with:  


“How did you know Glenn Marks was working as a floor manager at one of those dreadful casinos?”  


“I’m not in the mood for one of your proficiency tests, Mycroft,” Sherlock replies, impatiently. “I read that,” he adds with a nod to the file on the desk.  


I have to confess I’m a little nonplussed since the file was nowhere near us. Then again, it’s Sherlock, the man who can look at someone’s shirt-collar and tell whether they’re in a loving marriage or not.  


Now the Holmes brothers are staring each other down and I realize this is the first time I’ve taken part in it for over a year and a half. It doesn’t feel that long. Nothing feels that long anymore.  


“And why have you disbanded the efforts we’ve been making? We’ve secured data...”  


“Useless,” Sherlock interrupts. “You’ve heard what I’ve had to say, I’ve explained my motives clearly enough and you’ve already interrogated Glenn Marks. You did it the moment he was brought in, I know how you operate. You called on me to attend this meeting merely so you could show me off to this Allen Woodsbridge and you know how I hate it when you use me as your own private puppet.”  


“You were to be privy to the information shared by Glenn Marks...” Mycroft begins, but Sherlock cuts in again with:  


“Yes, thank you, I have it. And I’ll use it, you can be sure of that. My reason for disbanding your efforts? Your efforts are shining a great, big, blinding light on the fact that you’re nipping at these people’s heels.”  


“We’re always nipping at their heels, Sherlock. They’re paranoid, highly volatile personalities and they’re always aware of our presence. Taking us out of the game for a while won’t change that.”  


“The board reshuffling changes the game completely,” Sherlock replies tartly. “The next time you want to use me for shock-and-awe you will let me know beforehand. Trying to cover it up as something else is rather pathetic, even for you,” he adds, turning and stepping up to the door with a glance at me to follow; I do, stopping next to him when he pauses as he’s about to step outside, turning his head back to his brother, saying: “The leak is your chosen team leader.” He looks at me as we leave the room, adding: “Red tie – fairly obvious giveaway.”  


I smirk at that and Sherlock returns it with a slight smile as the door slides shut behind us.  


¤

  


“So, what was that all about?” I ask as the cab pulls out from the curb and we leave the warehouse behind. “The waving your sticks around in each other’s face I get, but,” I add, leaving the rest unsaid as I wait for his explanation.  


“If the person we’re after has at least half an eye directed elsewhere that might be all we need,” he answers. “My brother and his leak will act as a good distraction.”  


“Yeah, that’s another thing – why didn’t you tell your brother you have an idea who this person in charge of it all is?”  


“Please,” he smirks, “if Mycroft got a name he wouldn’t hesitate to utilize it. No, the man we’re after is too smart to fall for simple traps. And my brother is incapable of devising any trap that isn’t excruciatingly by-the-book. He’s never had much of an imagination.”  


“And the man? Allen Woodsbridge?”  


He turns his head to me, answering:  


“Bait.”  


I frown, wondering, and he elaborates:  


“Mycroft thinks he can dangle someone like that in front of me and I’ll come running out of pure curiosity. It’s not Allen Woodsbridge’s help he needs – it’s mine. ...There’s no time,” he grumbles, turning his eyes out the window. “He knows I’m coming.”  


“Who? Who knows you’re coming?” I ask, something hard and heavy beginning to form in the pit of my stomach at the expression he’s wearing.  


It takes another few moments before he reacts and as I’m about to draw a breath to insist on an answer he turns to me and replies:  


“His name’s Sebastian Moran.”  


My frown deepens.  


“Why do I know that name?” I say, more or less to myself.  


“Because he’s a war hero,” Sherlock states, something mocking in his tone as though the very concept offends him in this context. “One of the deadlier shots that the British army has ever produced. Honourably discharged.”  


“And he’s the new Moriarty?” I ask, eyebrows raised high.  


“No. He’s his own man,” Sherlock replies darkly. “If I hadn’t gotten his handle out of Mona Little I wouldn’t have had a crumb to go on.”  


“His handle?”  


“He’s calling himself The Colonel.”  


“Cute. Why not The General?”  


“We’ll have to ask him,” Sherlock replies and off my look he adds: “We need to smoke him out, John. And to do that we have to set a fire where he lives.”  


“Sherlock,” I begin.  


“He’ll let me get close,” Sherlock says as though he hasn’t heard the beginning of a protest in my use of his name. “He wants to see what I’ll do,” he continues, something eager in his eyes. “But he’s not Jim Moriarty. Sebastian Moran is cunning, infinitely more careful, dangerous and, on most accounts, sane – I don’t know yet if that’s good or bad.”  


“He wants you dead?” I inquire.  


“Presumably,” Sherlock replies.  


“Then I’d say bad,” I offer, looking him over before I add: “How could it be good?”  


“He might be open to discussion,” Sherlock answers as the cab pulls up outside the restaurant where we’ve decided to have an early dinner.  


I hadn’t realized how late it had gotten, but it’s already close to four-thirty and the lack of food I’ve suffered all day was beginning to grow painful back at Mycroft’s office. Now, however, the hunger is all but forgotten, replaced by something cold and clammy crawling into my chest as I listen to my best friend speak in a way he’s only ever spoken about one other man before. Dread is a mushrooming cloud within me as we step out of the cab and I wait for Sherlock to pay the cabbie before we’re face to face on the sidewalk.  


“The man’s a criminal, “I say. “What’s the discussion?”  


“He’s a criminal, yes,” Sherlock agrees, plunging his hands into the pockets of his coat. “But what sort?” he adds as we head for the door of the restaurant.  


The mushrooming cloud is grey and dry and terrible.  


“Please tell me you’re not going to get all besotted with this one as well – I honestly don’t think I could stomach it,” I snap, halting.  


Sherlock stops as well, about to reach for the handle of the restaurant’s large oak door, but instead turning to me with a questioning expression.  


“What?” he says, something innocently astonished on his face.  


He’s not getting off that easily.  


“He’s a murderer, Sherlock,” I state, suddenly overcome with lingering doubts and fears and I continue harshly: “That’s the sort of criminal he is. If you go off, if you leave me behind and go off to some meeting with him somewhere on your own I swear I’m done. I’ll walk away. That’s it.”  


And I mean it. I’m almost shaking from the words, but the thought of having to go through it all again. I can’t. I’ll break. He’ll break me in half.  


“John.”  


His voice is soft, with a hint of reproach there. He can’t blame me for my worry, though. He can’t make me take it back or suck it up or push it down because it’s warranted. After what he did he must know it is. He must understand. I sort of wish I could get a better hold of myself, however. I’m stiff as a board to keep from showing the emotions –he’ll read them much too easily if I let him – but I keep my eyes in his. I need to hear him say it. I need to hear him speak a promise that he won’t leave me behind this time.  


“I won’t,” he finally says.  


“Good,” I give a nod and head past him up to the door.  


I pull it open, holding it for him as he follows; eyes on my face as he continues inside and I watch him go, I watch his back as he disappears in through the doorway and begin to relax.  


It will be different this time around. I’ll make bloody well sure of it.


	7. A Place to Rest

The restaurant smells of heated oil, frying vegetables and cooking meat. I can practically hear your mouth watering.  


You’re removing your jacket as we’re shown to our table. I catch you glancing at the plates of food being delivered to the table closest to ours. I smile to myself as I sit. You drape your jacket over the back of your chair before you sit as well, grabbing the menu and beginning to read it with something rather greedy in your gaze. My smile lingers.  


When I think of what you said just before we entered the restaurant, however, it fades away.  


I find myself eyeing your face, looking for any sign of doubt, a wrinkle of anxiety, a shadow that hasn’t been there before. Lines that I haven’t noticed. Or cared to notice. But your face is your own, as it always has been, and I can’t see anything that would indicate me having lost your trust in me. The marking is resting there, though, just beneath the skin, untouchable. How can I make you understand?  


“You should try the lamb,” I tell you, bringing your gaze in mine. “Best this side of the Thames,” I add.  


“Really?” You sound intrigued. “You having anything?”  


I wave a hand noncommittally, sitting back on my chair and waiting as you order, my eyes glancing about the space: cream-colored walls, large oil paintings in rustic greens and blues and reds, tasteful music turned down low, sconces on the walls, dimmers in the ceiling, twenty guests dispensed between the thirty tables even as early as this – impressive. The place is keeping up with its own standards. I’ve been here before. You haven’t. I wonder if you like it.  


You’ve taken my advice and ordered a lamb dish with mint and herbs. Excellent choice. But then, you’ve always been good at choosing deftly off a menu.  


You have a drink of your water, looking around before you say:  


“Nice.”  


I smile crookedly. You turn your gaze in mine and smile as well, somewhat tentatively and I realize your mind also lingers on the conversation we had on the way over.  


Whatever worries you’re having I wish I could quell them, but I don’t know how to. Words only say so much and I’ve no way of showing you how I mean to keep my wits about me; how – whatever my fascination may have been with James Moriarty – it won’t come to that again. My actions would speak louder than any sentence I can think of, but my actions are vying for us to put ourselves right in the middle of the fox’s den. As such they don’t exactly seem apt to soothe you.  


“So,” you then say: “what’s our first step?”  


I observe you as our waitress comes over with a basket of bread, refilling our water glasses before pouring your red wine. I suddenly find myself watching you as you thank her; I watch your eyes follow her movements; watch how your mouth affords her a smile with such ease. There’s warmth in that smile, showing the openness to you that caught my attention that first time I met you. You handed me your mobile without even a moment’s hesitation, aiding a stranger coming naturally to you. I believe my trust was yours immediately – you secured it with that one simple action and reinforced it again and again.  


Trust does not come easily to me. There is littleness to most people that I can’t abide, narrow minds and bristling egos that can’t cope alongside mine. You’re different. You may bristle, but never without warrant. Your honest reproach whenever you find me at fault is what has deepened my trust in you into something I can’t easily name.  


Then your eyes meet mine as you bring the glass to your lips, tasting the wine again.  


“Mh,” you say, taking no notice of my scrutinizing you. “It’s good.”  


My gaze stays on you for a moment longer and I’m growing aware of how I’m actually in the middle of making a decision I was convinced had already been made.  


I thought the text I sent you last night was a tool I had chosen, to secure your help in disentangling this toxic web stretching itself across the city, and that leading you into the fray was a tactical manoeuvre on my part – nothing more. How it would bring you back into my company was simply a by product of my realer need of your assistance.  


Watching your face now I must allow myself to see the truth of why I summoned you to me and that my wanting to see you was the real drive behind it all along, no matter how I’ve disguised it to myself. It makes everything that much more complicated because here I am, observing your well-known features intently, deciding of whether or not I should entangle to disentangle. Here I am, as I was eighteen months ago, putting your life first.  


Only this time I’m doing it because of the notion that I’ve damaged something between us by leaving. By returning. Or by keeping away. But you must see my reasons or you wouldn’t be sitting here with me. Your trust may be rattled, but it will settle back on familiar ground soon enough and in the end it doesn’t matter what I choose or what I put first or second or third, it doesn’t even matter what I want – I do need you with me in this. The choice should be yours.  


And you’ve already made it.  


With that in mind I say:  


“One of the many fronts for the syndicate’s business is – unoriginally enough – this waterfront casino you heard mentioned in the meeting.” Your expression is growing focused as you listen attentively: it encourages me. I press on with: “Now, clearly whatever Mycroft’s managed to scrap together in the form of intel is completely worthless, details will have been altered, dates, transactions, names, obviously, but the casino is a place for us to start. So…?”  


“So the first step is to get into the casino,” you fill in. “But how do we do that? They must know who you are.”  


“Yes,” I murmur, sinking back.  


“Yeah, so, how?” you repeat.  


I sigh out a soft breath before throwing my hands up:  


“Haven’t the faintest,” I reply as they bring in your food.  


Your eyes brighten at the sight of it and you grab the cutlery as the waitress gives you a smile and her hope that you will enjoy. You’re sure that you will and I watch you stick your fork in the piece of tender meat, cutting a bite-size and bringing it to your mouth. It tastes as good as it smells, I can tell.  


“Mh,” you nod in approval. “Sure you don’t want some?” you add, eyebrows raised, hands already busy getting at another piece.  


I give a shake of my head, thinking how odd it is – the things you miss. I have missed this more than anything, I know now, sitting here in the middle of it. Whenever I’ve had a seat at a restaurant table I’ve looked across from me and seen that empty chair opposite. I am good at removing myself from unwanted emotion. I’ve always been good at removing unwanted emotions from me. And yet I couldn’t remove you. I could never remove you.  


I’m frowning, I realize, and smooth my brow as you say:  


“Disguises, maybe? Some sort of... Well, I mean, you’re not unfamiliar with dressing up.”  


You lift your eyebrows meaningfully, having another mouthful of wine and I smirk.  


“When the occasion calls for it,” I agree.  


“Clearly you can’t go in and introduce yourself as Sherlock Holmes,” you remark.  


“Clearly,” I give a nod.  


“You’ll need another name. At least,” you state with emphasis.  


“Mh,” I affirm when your mobile buzzes with a text and you dig into your jacket pocket with some difficulty before finally retrieving it.  


Your eyes widen at whatever is displayed and then you look back at me. There’s a beat where I don’t quite know what to make of your expression, but for some reason it sends goose bumps up my arms. It’s an odd reaction. I rarely experience the sensation. I feel as though something bad has happened and you’re about to deliver the news.  


You don’t, however – you excuse yourself in a low voice as you hit speed-dial for someone and leave the table.  


¤

  


“I’m so sorry,” I say into the phone.  


I pause in the short lobby of the restaurant, the back of Sherlock’s head still in my line of sight.  


“I didn’t see your messages until now,” I add. “I’m _really_ , very sorry.”  


“It’s fine,” Audrey laughs. “Honestly, John, I felt silly texting you _again_ , but you usually reply straight away. You had me a little worried, actually. Sorry, I didn’t mean to...”  


“No, no, no,” I shake my head, feeling a heat underneath my skin that I wish I knew the reason for, but as my gaze goes to Sherlock it only makes it worse. “I don’t know what I was thinking,” I add and realize as I say it that it’s true. “I mean, I haven’t been. Thinking. Audrey...”  


I trail off, unable to look away from him as I’d actually somehow forgotten that there’s no Baker Street; that things have changed, borders have shifted, our landscape isn’t what it was. How do I navigate this new land now that he’s appeared in it when he wasn’t there before? When he wasn’t meant to be here? Suddenly I feel lost.  


“Is everything alright?” she asks, a note of concern there that almost makes me cringe.  


Where does this guilt come from? Why do I feel so guilty?  


Because I’m readily going to put myself in danger, I conclude. Whatever this is and wherever it’s going it’s absolutely clear that we’re headed for violent territory. And I have to tell her. For all I know I might be bringing her into this as well. That thought makes my chest tighten with sudden fear for her.  


“John?” she says.  


“Yes, everything is... I’ll have to talk to you about it later. Tomorrow.”  


“Tomorrow?” she asks, surprise in her voice; and wonder.  


I nod, even though she can’t see me. It doesn’t help me feel that the decision I made the moment I spoke the word is the right one, but I don’t know how late we’ll be at it tonight and I’d rather... I’d rather not disappoint her. By making plans and being late. Or being really late and waking her. No. I’d rather not.  


“What about dinner?” she asks.  


Damn. Of course, we’ve already made plans. And now I have to break them.  


“Well, thing is... It’s been an odd day. A strange, odd... It’s been a _long_ day and, well,” I stumble, finally admitting: “I’m _having_ dinner.”  


“You’re _what_?” she asks, but I can hear the smile in her voice.  


“I’m sorry,” I repeat. “I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.”  


“Fine. Lunch?”  


I hesitate a moment too long before I reply:  


“I’ll call you at work, okay?”  


There’s hesitation in her voice as well now, a sudden insecurity that I desperately wish I wasn’t the cause of, when she replies:  


“Sure. John?”  


“Mh?”  


“Everything is alright, isn’t it?”  


“Yes,” I tell her, eyes drifting back to Sherlock, “everything’s alright.”  


We hang up after our goodbye and I draw a short breath, holding it in for a moment before I head back to the table, pushing the mobile into the pocket of my jacket and sitting down, granting Sherlock a brief smile, hoping he won’t ask.  


Of course, he does.  


“Something important?” he wonders.  


“Something private,” I reply, unsure of why I don’t feel like discussing my relationship with him at all.  


Perhaps because it never leads anywhere.  


He arches an eyebrow at the shortness of my tone. I should know better. His interest is peaked now.  


“A private conversation that makes you leave the table,” he muses out loud and I give him a look to shut up. “Couldn’t be medical – I would’ve noticed during the day if there was anything wrong with you.”  


“There isn’t,” I reply, chewing on a piece of lukewarm potato.  


“Work related?”  


I glance up at him, clearly he knows what the call was about and I wish he’d just say what he wants to have said.  


“Her name is Audrey,” I relent.  


He wears a slight smirk, eyes glittering with the fact that I caved in and I glare at him before I give him another look to give it a rest.  


“We’ve been together a year, in about one month.”  


“So eleven months,” he corrects.  


“What?”  


“Well, you’ve been together eleven months – why not simply say that you’ve been together eleven months?”  


“It’s almost a year. What _difference_ does it make?”  


“About a month’s difference, I’d say.”  


“Sherlock.”  


“Are you happy?” he asks and it takes me off guard, but his expression is sincerely curious as he waits for me to answer.  


I look him over for a moment before I give it:  


“Yes. She’s... great.”  


He observes me fixedly before he gives a soft sigh.  


“Well, happiness is fickle at best.”  


I can’t keep a small smile off my mouth at that, eyes on him as his gaze wanders about the room – most likely counting the squares patterned in the ceiling’s plaster.  


“Even number?” I ask and he lifts an eyebrow again.  


“No,” he mutters and my smile widens.  


¤

  


Two hours later and I’m seated beside you in a cab taking us back to your flat. We’ve kept the conversation light and it’s flowed as easily as it ever did, but now I feel the need to think; so I’m silent, going over the events of the day, thinking of the further confirmation to my suspicions found in the cemetery by the grave of the unfortunate Mr. Miller.  


For our new foe to be so bold that he would actually leave a calling card. While a part of me marvels, another is not in the least bit surprised: Sebastian Moran does not seem like the man to do anything half-heartedly and these shootings are a statement. A statement of what, I’m not yet entirely certain, but that there is a link between them is evident.  


We enter your flat and I close the door behind me, taking my coat off and hanging it on the hook where you dispensed of it earlier. Your jacket soon takes up the hook next to it as you disappear into the kitchen.  


Not many hours have passed since we were last here, and yet there’s a difference to the place, a relaxation between us where last time the air was fraught with your need to speak your mind. You may think I don’t notice those things, but I do. I always notice, but where is the point to adhere when you can’t change the past? Now I’m quietly enjoying the invitation to join you instead of returning to my own dismal accommodations.  


I accept the cup you bring me, but I instead of sitting down I opt for a position by one of the windows, looking down at the street below, beginning to lose myself in thought again.  


You’re right – we can’t very well traipse into that casino thinking Moran’s people won’t spot us instantly. I doubt he’s sounded the alarm. I stand firm in my conviction that as seasoned a hunter as he is, he knows when to give chase and when to calmly take position and wait. He’s waiting. I get the feeling this is – as with his predecessor – personal. Perhaps he’s caught up in the same aspirations: to cut me at the knees and watch me stumble and fall. Humiliation seems to be big with this particular set of villains. Or perhaps he simply enjoys the setting of traps, the luring of prey, the stillness right before that perfect moment arrives for him to strike. To kill.  


You’ve lit the candles in the fireplace and they spread a warm glow around the sparsely furnished room. It highlights the left side of your face and leaves the rest in deep shadow, a sight that for some reason sends a chill down my spine.  


I get the almost suffocating notion that if anything were to happen to you, if you were to come to harm simply because you’ve chosen to follow me I would lose my precious mind; it would be irrevocably gone, a blank where before there was thought, and everything I think I am would wither into dust.  


I blink at the melodrama, blaming the fact that I’ve barely slept the past four nights as I swiftly swipe my apprehension aside, taking the chair opposite you.  


“Where are you staying?” you inquire and I glance at you. “Not with Mycroft – obviously.”  


I lift one corner of my mouth in a half-smile.  


“I’m staying in an inconspicuous apartment off Regent’s Park Road,” I then mutter gloomily. “It serves its purpose well enough, I suppose.”  


“Its purpose being keeping you inconspicuous?” you retort.  


I don’t feel the need to respond and you seem to take my silence for an affirmative as you have a mouthful of tea.  


“I don’t have a sofa,” you remark.  


I raise my eyebrows.  


“I’d noticed,” I reply.  


You nod a little.  


“Do have a lilo,” you then inform casually and our eyes meet.  


I can’t keep the smirk off and you return it.  


¤

  


Sherlock’s helping himself to a shower while I get the lilo ready for him, making it up with fresh sheets and a few spare blankets, realizing I’ve not exactly nested as I only have three sets of sheets and the blankets are beyond reprove. I consider for one brief second giving him the covers off my own bed instead of these threadbare excuses, but discard the impulse – he’ll make do. He’ll have to, this isn’t a hotel, it’s simply a mate inviting another mate to stay over, what could be more normal than taking it as it comes?  


Only a part of me is wondering if this is actually a good idea. He’s been back less than a day and already I’ve managed to forget I have a girlfriend, I’ve completely neglected the fact that I have to get up early for surgery tomorrow morning and I’m bedding him down in my living room on a lilo that hasn’t been used since I moved in. There’s guilt there again and I wish I could brush it aside, but it’s not so easy. Nothing’s ever easy when dealing with him.  


He comes out of my bedroom wearing my robe and rubbing a towel through his wet locks. I give him a look for the chosen garb and he raises his eyebrows.  


“There was only the one,” he remarks as though that is explanation and excuse enough.  
I choose to ignore him.  


“There’s stuff in the fridge if you get hungry, water bottles in the pantry and... Ah,” I bring a small lamp off the mantelpiece and place it on the chair, the light spreading over his pillow, “if you want to read,” I add. “I have to get up in five hours so I’m off to bed.”  


“Already?” he asks.  


We’ve spoken about nothing and everything for a good six hours, though somehow we’ve stayed clear of exactly what he’s been doing abroad and precisely what I’ve been doing while he was gone. We’ve talked of wars fought far away, politics and history and murders and violence. We’ve touched on what’s up ahead, but Sherlock doesn’t know just what to expect anymore than I do and he has no patience for conjecture. I haven’t minded. Our evenings is one of the things I’ve missed the most, even those that weren’t like this, those that were filled with his quiet musings and the crackling of the fire, and I know it’s partly why I asked him to stay – the other part being my inability to picture myself having to say goodbye to him and watch him go.  


I give him another look as I head for my bedroom door. The practical side to me is telling the one that wants to stay up with him for the rest of the night to get my head on my own pillow or I might kill my patient in the morning. Sherlock will still be here tomorrow.  


I pause on my way through the doorway, my eyes on him as he presses a foot into the lilo to test its firmness, a slight furrow on his brow. It makes me smirk and I continue into my room, closing the door behind me.  
It takes me a while to fall asleep. Whenever I hear him moving I go from drowsy to wide awake. Then he’s not moving and I have the urge to rise and check that he’s there, that he’s not been something I’ve imagined after all. But I will myself to lie where I am and finally I drift off.  


I dream.  


I dream of the edge of a roof. A tree stands on it, its roots digging themselves deep into the stone of the building. On the edge is a name in gilded letters, chiselled into the stone, but I can’t read them as the letters make no sense to me. The name they make up catch the rays of the sun and reflect them back up at me, blinding me painfully. I look down and I see Sherlock on the sidewalk below. He’s looking up at me, a phone to his ear and I hear his voice, it fills my head and it tells me to betray him, asks me to forget everything I believe, everything I’ve seen with my own eyes, tells me that it was all a trick. A trick. He drops the phone and stretches his arms out and I reach my hand out and I yell his name, but there’s no sound and I can’t move because the roots of the tree are climbing up around me legs, holding me in place and then the world shifts and I’m on the ground beneath the tree at his grave and my hands are in the soil and I lift my eyes to the sky and I watch him as he falls, falls, falls...  


“John!”  


I open my eyes with a gasp of surprise; ripped from the nightmare it takes a moment to orientate myself, but my eyes meet his, his hand clasping my wrist gently, a look of deep concern on his face as he watches me. There’s worry there and something I would have labelled wariness, though I’m not sure why the latter would be there.  


I don’t know if I merely cried out from the horror I was going through or if I might have even called out his name. Audrey’s never said anything about me yelling for him in my sleep and I’ve had this nightmare with her more than once, but now I’m suddenly unsure. He looks almost paralyzed. He must at least have a reason to suspect what I was dreaming about or he wouldn’t have that look on his face. I’ve never seen him look so uncertain of what to do with himself.  


Before I know it I’ve moved my hand to grasp hold of his wrist as well, the touch of his warm skin under my fingertips chasing the last of the nightmare out of my head.  


He’s here. He’s alive.  


His hold tightens for a moment – reassuringly. There’s a question in his eyes now and I give a slight nod as I let go of him and he releases me. His gaze rests on my face for another second and there’s something in it that makes me think I’ve shown him a new side to me as well; there’s something quizzical on his face that makes him look many years younger than he is, as though a new conundrum literally takes him back to what it was like being a boy with a new puzzle to fit together. He rises and I watch him as he leaves the room, he glances at me before he quietly closes the door behind him.  


My heart is still beating hard in my chest and I draw a deep breath to steady it.


	8. Confessions and Borrowed Things

  
**September 20th**   


  


My alarm goes off at six. I get up, routinely heading for the bathroom to have a slash and run some water through my short strands to get the annoying swirls out of them, but halfway to the door my steps slow as I remember how I spent the day before and suddenly I’m scared to move, standing undecidedly in the middle of the room and turning doubtful eyes on the closed door. It leads into the hallway, into the sitting room where my friend is supposedly still asleep.  


_He’s not there._  


The hairs on my arms are standing up. I hesitate a moment longer before my rational side takes over and with a slight huff I walk up to the door, open it with an impatient tug and head into the other room.  


He’s pulled the covers up so that the only visible part of him is the dark mess of curls on the top of his head, standing on end like eager fingers have been tussling themselves through them all night. His breathing is deep and slow and I can’t bring myself to move away for another few moments, listening to it, resisting the urge I feel to walk up and kneel beside him, place a finger against the side of his neck and take his pulse.  


I turn for the bathroom. To put on clothes and have some coffee and brush my teeth and leave this flat for work. I’ve done it many times before, and it’s never felt unnatural, but now I feel as though weights are tied to my arms and legs and every instinct in me is telling me to call in sick. The responsible side to me perks its head up: I have a life in my hands this morning, where is my sense of duty, how can I be so neglectful? And I want to tell it that there’s a life here that has chosen to rely on me and there’s a duty to that as well and I’m neglectful for leaving him.  


My practical side shakes that notion out of me, however. He’s been gone for a year and a half chasing assassins and going through God knows what to apprehend them – he’ll be perfectly fine without me.  


I close the front door behind me, locking it. I left a key with a note for him. And with that I head toward Russell Square and Mrs. Gupta’s spleen.  


¤

  


“That’s Sherlock Holmes,” I hear someone mumble to their colleague as I enter the Yard.  


I turn more than one head on my way up to Lestrade’s office, but I pay them no mind. All apart from Sally, whose gaping mouth and widening eyes actually make me grant her a crooked smirk.  


“He in?” I ask casually, not waiting for a reply as I open the door and proceed through it.  


Lestrade looks moderately the same though his hair needs a trim, there’s a tea-stain on his tie, there are dark circles under his eyes, a stiffness in his back and his shoes are splattered with a fine spray of dirty water. I believe I came just in time.  


He gives me a long look before he lets out a sigh, putting the sheet of paper he has in his hands into his fax machine and punching in a number before hitting send. The sound of the fax fills the space for sixteen seconds before it goes abruptly quiet. He turns his head back to me.  


“Sherlock,” he says with a slight inclination of his head.  


I smile at his lack of surprise.  


“Been spending your off-hours in the morgue?” I ask.  


“Actually I go there while I’m on duty. It’s part of my job,” he retorts.  


Then he returns my smile, reaching out a hand. I hesitate for a moment before I take the step dividing us and grasp it in a firm hold. He’s eyeing me closely now, something curious on his face and when we let go I say:  


“I suppose you’d like me to explain...”  


“No, that’s fine. Molly...” he pauses and with a meaningful tilt of his head toward me he corrects himself: “Ms. Hooper already filled me in. And don’t blame the girl for needing someone to confide in.  


“No,” I acquiesce and he looks almost grateful.  


“Coffee?” he inquires.  


“No. Thank you. I came to discuss the three murders, which you’ve dutifully linked together, but can’t seem to find a proper explanation of. Gunshot wounds, missing bullets – blah, blah.”  


He stares at me, his finger hovering above the call-button for his secretary. Then he offers me the chair opposite his and has a seat in his own behind the desk, trying to look as though I’m not about to relieve him of the tension I can tell has collected in his shoulders over the past four months.  


“You know who committed them?” he asks.  


“Yes.”  


“You know how?”  


I have an idea of how, but I reply:  


“No. Not yet.”  


“What do you need?” he wonders with a resignation to his tone that makes me smile a small smile in recognition.  


“Everything you’ve managed to collect in the form of evidence so far, as well as access to the most recent murder site. By the state of you I suppose I should wear Wellingtons.”  


His eyebrows lift in wonder and then he looks down at his shoes and grants me a frown instead.  


I smile.  


¤

  


“But really, the amount of toxins in the ground is actually pretty distressing. Even Thomas pointed out that there’s a good chance it will cause damage to the surrounding... Okay, you’re not listening to me,” Audrey shakes her head, sitting back on her chair, observing me with a small wrinkle on her brow. “Will you, please, just tell me what’s going on?”  


We’re in the cafeteria of the university building she’s been holed up in for going on a month now, conducting some sort of study. Concerning toxins, apparently. It’s for her thesis, that much I’m sure of. I have been listening, but I have also been trying to think of a way to tell her that Sherlock is alive and well and sleeping on my floor.  


“John,” she prompts, folding her arms across her chest, which I know means she’s as serious as she can get.  


“Yesterday,” I begin, “I went to Sherlock’s grave. And he was sitting on it.”  


She looks nonplussed.  


“On the _headstone_ ,” I attempt to clarify, but it doesn’t help at all. “Sherlock was _there_ ,” I offer. “ _Alive._ He’s been alive this whole time. Well, he wouldn’t have _died_ and come _back_ to life because that would be… unusual. Not that he doesn’t do the most unusual things. He does, believe me. I wasn’t even that… Not that I wasn’t. I was shocked, who wouldn’t be? But there’s a case. Can you believe it? We have a case. And it’s a pretty big one and I can’t... I mean, I don’t think I should tell you all that much about it because... I don’t want to put you in any sort of danger. Not that there _is_ any danger. Yet. I think. You never can tell, really. But it’s going to be fine. I promise you. It’ll be fine. But that’s what I was doing. Yesterday. When you called.”  


She’s staring at me. At the word “danger” her eyes grew round, but she seems to have gathered herself together somewhat. She never struck me as the type who scares easily and she sounds collected when she says:  


“I’d like to meet him.”  


I nod, chewing on my salad. I nod and chew.  


Christ.  


“Where is he staying?” she asks.  


“Oh,” I wave a hand, shrugging, “somewhere near Camden.”  


She frowns.  


“Really? He always struck me as more of a High Street Kensington type of guy.”  


“Baker Street _wasn’t_...” I trail off, unsure of why I feel so defensive of him. “He’s renting a room somewhere. ...But last night he stayed with me,” I say lightly, skewering a tomato with my fork, the juices bursting from its innards.  


Something shifts in her gaze. I can’t put my finger on the expression, but it’s different from any she’s ever worn before. Her arms unfold and she places them on the table as she leans forward, resting her eyes in mine.  


“Might be a few more nights,” I plod on, unsure of why the words feel as though they are actually swelling in my mouth as I speak them. I swallow the tomato. “Until he finds a proper place of his own,” I add, sensing it’s mostly to underline the expected length of stay to myself.  


She smiles then and nods, but I notice the smile doesn’t entirely reach her eyes for the first time since I’ve known her and my heart sinks a little in my chest at the sight of it.  


“Will I see you both tonight, then?” she wonders, her face softening with hopeful anticipation. “I could cook you dinner.”  


I nod again, grabbing my water glass and taking a mouthful. Nodding, swallowing, nodding.  


“Yeah, no, that sounds... good. _Great_ ,” I say. “But I don’t know... Because of the case. Usually it’s we’re out the door at a moment’s notice, so maybe we should...”  


I trail off again, hating myself for it.  


“…wait?” she fills in, a streak of sadness there.  


Why shouldn’t it be there? I’m effectively telling her that suddenly there’s a part of my life that has no room for her. One that she’s not able to partake in. One that I am unable to even speak of to her. But that’s how this part of my life has always been with her, I realize – I’ve never spoken to her of Sherlock and she’s never prodded. She’s asked once or twice, but has given up on it when my answers have been more than evasive.  


“I’m sorry,” I say, and I mean it, reaching out to take her hand.  


She squeezes my fingers and gives me a smile that is a little brighter before she nods.  


“It’s okay. I understand, of course,” she says. “He’s your friend. And, my God, he’s _alive_! That’s _incredible_.”  


She laughs then and I think that perhaps this isn’t all that bad. It will be okay this time. I’ll make it work when all the other ones I’ve failed to.  


“Sorry, delayed reaction there,” she smiles, shaking her head at herself. “Maybe that should’ve come first, but... Well, where has he been? Why is he back now? Can’t you tell me anything of what you’re up to? I’m a big girl, you know, and if the big bad wolf is coming after me it might be better I know what to look out for,” she states with a meaningful raise of her eyebrows.  


I realize she’s right. And so I tell her. Almost everything.  


¤

  


The house where young Eric Miller lived and died is a three-story brick construction, flanked by two houses of the exact same appearance, with a small back garden reaching for Hampstead Heath as though wanting to conjoin with its vast greenery instead of being confined by its red-painted wooden fence.  


The grass is still wet from a sprinkler – given that we’ve had five days of complete dryness I can somewhat see the use for it – and autumn blossoms stand in their perfectly groomed beds: whoever tends this patch of land takes gardening very seriously.  


“I was hoping to find... something,” Lestrade is muttering where he’s standing next to me, undoubtedly referring to the fact that he’s already been here once today – and every other day this week, I gather.  


This case is haunting him.  


His eyes are turned upward, toward the window through which Eric Miller was shot.  


My eyes are on the wooden fence.  


“You observed he must have been killed at close range?” I ask.  


“Yes. As well as Derren Small and Linus Bracket. All the bullet wounds were consistent with the weapon having been fired no more than twenty feet or less. Ms. Hopper confirmed it in her own reports.”  


“Yes, I know,” I nod.  


“It’s the damndest thing, really,” he goes on, making me certain he didn’t hear my response. “We think he climbed the fence, but forensics insists that it wouldn’t get the shooter into proper alignment. The fence is too low. But how, then? How?”  


“The fence is not only too low – it would also mean the shooter placing himself at a disadvantage as he could easily be spotted not only from the path beyond, but from three neighbouring houses in either direction. Hardly ideal. He knew Eric Miller’s habits. He knew when to position himself to get a clean shot and this clean shot came from _those_ trees.”  


He turns his eyes where I’m pointing at a tree-line in the distance before he looks at me as though I’m insane and shakes his head.  


“That’s impossible,” he says and I smirk.  


“Exactly,” I agree before I walk around to the front of the house.  


Lestrade comes around the corner just as I push the bell by the front door and his shoulders slump, his face annoyed and yet acknowledging the fact that he has no way of stopping me as he complains:  


“We’re not supposed to disturb Mrs. Miller. I gave her sister my word.”  


“Luckily for us, I didn’t give her my anything,” I reply cheerfully as the door opens and a squat woman with a pale face and brown eyes tilt her head to look up at me.  


She takes me in for a moment, bewildered by this stranger on her stoop, and then I can see recognition flutter through her expression as it softens into gaping surprise.  


“You’re not...?” she begins and I interrupt her by grabbing her hand and saying:  


“Sherlock Holmes. Pleasure, I’m sure. Mind if I come in?”  


Without waiting for an answer I step past her and into a dimly lit, narrow hallway that could use a new coat of paint. The wall that has the stair against it is covered with framed pictures of a family at different stages and in different places – a young Mr. and Mrs. Miller have a baby I can only assume to be Eric between them. Eric is on a swing. Eric is by the ocean. Eric is in a car, on a train, on a plane, on a boat, fishing, biking, climbing, laughing, crying. This woman has clearly lost her entire life through the firing of a single bullet.  


“Greg,” she greets Lestrade and I notice the compassionate look he gives her, the slightest smile, as he passes her as well.  


“I’m sorry, Martha,” he apologizes. “I never would have presumed...”  


“It’s alright,” she shakes her head, closing the door behind him and turning to me, fresh tears in her eyes now that the shock of seeing me is wearing off. “Mr. Holmes,” she says. “Aren’t you supposed to be dead? I read it in all the papers.”  
“Only goes to show you shouldn’t put too much stock into what you read in the papers, Mrs. Miller,” I reply with a slight smile of my own, suddenly wishing you were here to deal with pleasantries and allow for me to simply get on with it.  


“You going to find who murdered my Eric?” she asks and there’s something so dignified about her as she says her son’s name that I, for a moment, forget my eagerness to explore the house and turn to face her fully.  


“Yes,” I then simply reply.  


Her lower lip trembles and I don’t know if it’s from her sorrow or from gratitude.  


“I would like to have a look around,” I say with a glance at Lestrade, who cocks an eyebrow at my actually voicing the request.  


“Be my guest,” Mrs. Miller gives me her leave and I turn, heading into the sitting room.  


I systematically go through the first floor before I move upstairs and look through the master bedroom, the bathroom and finish with the room facing the garden where the boy was shot.  


Eric’s room has dark green walls, a few posters of interesting architecture, two shelves heavy with books, a CD-collection, a closet filled with nothing remarkable, a tidy desk where tiny collectable classic cars stand in a row, a TV and DVD collection and a bed. I wonder if the room was always so tidy, or if its tidiness is merely a result of it having been scrubbed clean of the blood, sprayed by the bullet opening up the back of Eric Miller’s skull.  


He was almost nineteen, had recently begun his university studies in engineering, played football in his spare time, had a group of friends he’d had since middle school and was well-liked by everyone who knew him – none of them able to say why anyone would want to shoot him through the head.  


“There must be something,” I mutter to myself, beginning to pull out the drawers of the desk, looking through photographs which I know the forensic team has already looked through, flipping through notebooks that I know have already been minutely studied, aware that it’s the smallest details that are always overlooked, especially by the most trained eye: it stares itself blind.  


At the bottom of the middle drawer I come across a stack of postcards. I flip them over and begin to read. My gaze pauses its movement across the back of the third postcard and I find myself smiling contentedly. Shoving the postcards into my coat pocket I leave the room for the downstairs.  


“Thank you, Mrs. Miller, this was most helpful,” I say as I pass the sitting room doorway.  


I walk up to the front door and through it without barely pausing, hearing Lestrade make some excuse and farewell before he follows me.  


“Well, how did it go?” he asks as he catches up.  


“Forward,” I answer him and he rolls his eyes at me. “I’d like to visit the homes of Derren Small and Linus Bracket next,” I add, opening the passenger door of his car and getting in.  


¤

  


“John, come in,” Gareth Richardson says when I knock on his doorframe.  


He’s a tall, well-groomed and fair-haired surgeon who has been one of my closest colleagues this past year. He’s been with Dr. Morton since he founded the practice nine years ago and is comfortable in his role as office beauty and pathological flirt. Nevertheless he’s one of the most professional doctor’s I’ve ever worked alongside and he is very good at what he does. He’s also my last hope – I’ve gotten turned down by the other three fellow surgeons I’ve turned to.  


I take Gareth’s outstretched hand, but decline a seat as I say:  


“I’ve come for a favour, I’m afraid. Or a few favours.”  


“A few?” Gareth asks. “Sounds serious. Do tell.”  


I smile.  


“Could you cover for me? I’ve managed to reschedule three of the surgeries I had on the board this weekend, but tomorrow I have two that have waited for three months already...”  


“Yes, we’ve become quite popular,” Gareth smiles. “Of course I’ll take them if you want out of them. Simple ones?”  


“Standard ones,” I nod, giving him a thankful smile as relief fills me.  


“No problem,” he returns my smile. “Might I ask why you so desperately need time off?”  


“Not desperate,” I defend myself. “Just... want to spend time with a friend. Haven’t seen him in a while.”  


Gareth nods, looking as though he understands, but I get the feeling he doesn’t and I wonder if he has any male friends at all. Probably not, he’s always seemed more comfortable around women. I head for the door with a thank you, promising I’ll repay him whenever he needs me to.  


“I’ll hold you to that,” his voice follows me out the door and I give him another smile before I close it, suddenly feeling light as a feather.  


I won’t have to work until next Wednesday. That’s almost a week off.  


I say goodnight to Kate and head for the door, slowing my step as I see someone I distantly recognize outside its glass, and then another face I know, and another. Understanding wrenches through me like a closed fist and I feel breathless: members of the press. The distantly recognizable one spots me, her eyes widening as she begins to wave. Her excitement spreads like wildfire to the others and soon they’re knocking on the window, shouting their questions, the sound of their voices muffled by the protective obstacle between us. They can’t enter – they have to be buzzed in. I turn to Kate, almost pleading; as though she can somehow spirit me away from this place and back to my flat.  


I whip out my cell-phone and text Sherlock. The reply comes in less than ten seconds.  


_Flat surrounded. Went to mine. 14 Regent’s Park Road. Back entrance. SH_  


Something in me trembles at the sight of his well-known initials, as though I still can’t quite get rid of the disbelief at him actually being a part of my life again, just like that. As shockingly abruptly as he left it, he’s re-entered it in the same fashion. I almost call him just to hear his voice over the line telling me something other than the dreadful lies he spoke the last time I heard it over the phone, but the impulse is gone in a blink and I head for the elevator.  


I’ll go down into the garage below the building; hopefully I can sneak out that way. I push the button, but as I wait I find myself thinking one step further and turn, walking back to Gareth’s door.  


He looks up when I open it.  


“John?”  


“Your car,” I say slowly, “it has tainted windows, doesn’t it?”  


He looks wondering.  


¤

  


I sit on the back of the sofa when you open the door of the room and pause, looking around in clear surprise at how small it is. I wonder what you were expecting, but discard the urge to ask you as I focus back on the three dozen or so postcards spread out on the floor before me. I’ve moved the table against one wall to make room, which only serves to shrink the space further and there’s something tentative in your movements as you step inside and close the door behind you.  


I can feel your eyes on me.  


I bring my hands up, palms together, and place them underneath my chin as I let my gaze rove freely over the puzzle on the floor.  


“What’re we doing?” you wonder, taking your jacket off.  


You bring the scent of fallen leaves and moist air with you.  


“Is it raining?”  


“What? No,” you answer and I turn my eyes in yours, noting the small wondering frown you’re wearing.  


“It will,” I state, not expecting a response from you and I don’t get one either, instead you squat to pick up one of the postcards, flipping it over and reading the back.  


“’Trip went well. Flight delayed. See you in a week’,” I recite, meeting your gaze as you lift your eyebrows. “There are five of those. Four where the flight has been cancelled, six where the flight was on time, nine where the flight route was changed due to weather conditions, eight where it was missed completely, three where it was stalled before take-off and a final five where the plane suffered some technical difficulty on the tarmac. The amount of time stated for the reunion differs with every new flight scenario.”  


You look at me blankly, trying to catch up, but not quite getting there.  


“Don’t you see?” I ask, sliding off the back of the sofa to plant my feet on either side of them, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees as I finish: “It’s a code.”  


“Oh,” you nod. “And where did you get these?”  


“Derren Small, Linus Bracket, Eric Miller.”  


Your mouth purses as your eyes narrow and you observe me for a moment.  


“You stole them,” you surmise.  


“I borrowed them,” I offer.  


“Out of the hands of grieving parents,” you shake your head.  


“They didn’t even know they were there,” I shrug dismissively.  


“Sherlock,” you say my name in that close to exasperated tone you only use when you seriously disapprove of my actions.  


“No, don’t you understand – these _prove_ the link,” I try to explain, grabbing another one of the cards and holding it out to you as though it will help me prove my point. “There’s a pattern here. I just have to see behind it.”  


“And then what?”  


“ _Direction_ ,” I answer eagerly.  


You watch me for a beat before you suddenly smile. I’m not sure why you do, but I return it instantly. You replace the postcard in its previous position, straightening up and looking around for a seat, spotting the chair by the desk and walking over, grabbing the backrest to pull it into position and pausing as it threatens to come off in your grasp. Your eyes are in mine again, amused.  


“Spared no expense?” you wonder, dragging the chair by its leg instead and having a seat as I return my gaze on the evenly positioned question mark on the floor.  


“My brother,” I murmur. “His suggestion,” I clarify with a glance about the room.  


I know you wear a smirk even without looking at you and I suppose you think it serves me right: the comfortable life I’d managed to build for myself at Baker Street has been unravelled and I’m the only one to blame for that. If I’d chosen to send you some sort of sign that I was still alive, perhaps you wouldn’t have chosen to move. My things would have been waiting for me. As well as you.  


I glance at you where you’re sitting, looking as deep in thought as I am, though your mind is on the puzzle, not the past or what could have been. I keep drifting back there; I’ve rarely spent much time there before now and I wonder why it is you’ve always managed to bring out this side to me. Your influence never unsettled me in the beginning, it was too subtle and somewhere I welcomed it, but then I realized I’d grown to depend on it. I do depend on it. I wonder if you know.  


You did wait for me, though. Some part of you had some way of anticipating my return or you wouldn’t have been as calm as you were, you wouldn’t be throwing yourself headfirst into this with me, as you’ve always done. Your eyes meet mine and I move my gaze out of yours, snapping myself out of these useless musings as I say:  


“Mycroft’s arranged a press conference tomorrow.”  


“Yeah, about that – do we know how they know you’re back?” you wonder.  


“I went to Scotland Yard,” I reply simply and at your frown I add: “I needed to see Lestrade. I had to have his help or I would’ve _really_ been stealing the information we now have. …There was bound to be a stir.”  


“A stir?” you shake your head. “Wouldn’t it have been better to keep a low profile? Aren’t you trying to... I don’t know, infiltrate? Isn’t that best done… quietly?”  


I lift one corner of my mouth in a smirk.  


“Yes,” I say. “But the rifle’s already pointed at us. Causing a stir might block the bullet.”  


This doesn’t exactly serve to set you at ease, but you don’t make any voiced protest either, merely settle back with a grim expression on your face as you allow me silence to contemplate the postcards.  


¤

  


Bloody madness, but then, this is Sherlock. And I do trust him with my life. Whatever he’s got moving through that brain of is I know it’ll end up in a plan that will see us through. Even though the last plan he had ended up with him dead and me…  


I discard the thought. There’s no use dwelling on it. That was another time, another scenario and most definitively another villain. Whatever Sebastian Moran is, I’m sure Sherlock is right when he says he’s no Jim Moriarty. This will not be like then.  


I recline on the sofa as Sherlock sits cross-legged on the floor. Every half an hour he rearranges the postcards, turning them over so he can read their messages or turning them back so he can look at the images they depict. All of them are London postcards showing pictures from around the city. All of them, apart from the set of five sent when the flight was delayed on the tarmac, which only have one image covering the whole of them, have more than one image in neatly arranged boxes. Some have six, some four, some have maps of the city, of the underground, but nothing else to go on. I gave up two hours ago, leaving Sherlock to do what he does best.  


“Are we waiting?” I say, having drifted off for a while and now finding myself more alert than earlier.  


It feels good. I sort of find myself even liking the room we’re in, in spite of how it really is the saddest little room I’ve ever seen. But the steady shuffling of the postcards as Sherlock repositions them serves to break the quiet of it, and the yellow light from the lamp on the desk makes the place feel almost homely.  


“Waiting for what?” he asks, hands together under his chin, the way they always come together when his concentration is directed with absoluteness on whatever’s in front of him.  


He doesn’t like the disturbance, I can tell, but since he answered I feel in my rights to reply:  


“To try and do the… infiltrating? Of the casino.”  


“Mh,” he mutters.  


Then nothing.  


I’m about to heave a sigh when he adds:  


“No, we should move quickly. Saturday.”  


I raise my eyebrows, pausing as I turn my head to him. He doesn’t look at me. I hesitate, but say:  


“So tomorrow... No plans?”  


“No,” he confirms, reaching out long, slender fingers to straighten one of the cards.  


“Tomorrow evening, I mean. Nothing?”  


“No, nothing,” he states.  


“Audrey invited us to dinner,” I say, almost hurrying the words out before I can change my mind.  


“Good,” he replies, though I’m actually now unsure of whether he heard me or not.  


“At her place, I think might be best,” I go on, my eyes still lingering on him.  


“Fine,” he says.  


I don’t know why my heart is beating so slowly. It will be just that: fine. This meeting will go smoothly. He can behave, when he wants to. He’ll want to. He’ll behave himself. He’s got manners, when he chooses to use them. He wouldn’t want to offend me by offending her. And besides, Audrey isn’t that easily offended. She can hold her own and give as good as she gets. She’s clever, funny and quick-witted. But Sherlock…  


Sherlock is ruthless when he’s bored or when he feels his control slipping. Especially when he feels his control slipping. And his track record with my previous girlfriends isn’t exactly spotless.  


However, Audrey wants to meet him and I owe it to her to let her see, let her know who it is I’m putting myself on the line for, who I’m leaving her alone at night for. He can explain what it is we do in better words than I ever could, I think. He’ll be blunt, but honest. And I believe she needs to hear about it from his mouth, not mine. It will weigh more heavily because Sherlock is where it all begins and ends, really. I’m just his blogger.  


I smirk at that and begin to feel a bit more relaxed, clearing my throat as I sit up and say:  


“So, I’ll call her and tell her we’re coming to hers for dinner tomorrow night, then?”  


He doesn’t hear me – at least this time he doesn’t respond – and I rise, grabbing my phone and stepping out into the dark, narrow hallway leading to the stairs to call her with the good news. She’s happy, I can hear that. Happy to be included. Eagerly she begins interrogating me about what Sherlock does and doesn’t eat, does and doesn’t drink and I can almost hear her writing the menu in her head.  


I can’t keep myself from giving her a firm warning, telling her that Sherlock can be rather moody. The word seems a good fit, instead of telling her that he can sometimes become so provoking you would think he actually wants you to punch him in the face. She merely laughs and I feel my stomach warm at the sound, smiling a little to myself as we hang up.  


I look at the closed door and feel wrapped in the darkness of the hallway, as though it’s a protective in between: on one side of its shadows is the front door, the world beyond and Audrey; on the other is that small room, the glow of a lamp and the best friend I have ever had.  


I reach out and place my fingers lightly on the knob. It’s chilly to the touch, made of some cheap mixture of metals, I’m sure; but for some reason comforting. It feels steady in my hand. I turn it and re-enter the room, closing the door behind me.


	9. Conversation Over Three Courses

**September 21st**

  


The room is in an uproar. There is no order to the questions being shouted at the small podium where Sherlock and Lestrade are situated, Anderson not far off and a handful of police officers in uniform close at hand – there to make a show of keeping the peace, as if there’s bound to be a riot. Well, from the state of the gathered press core, I’m beginning to think there actually might be.  


Sherlock looks irritated by the chaos, most probably because not even he can make sense of what’s being asked of him.  


It didn’t begin like this. When we entered the room the photographers got the chance to take their pictures. I kept myself at Sherlock’s side, though half a step behind him as we faced the flashes and the strangers calling out our names, asking us to look into their lenses, vying for the most expressive capture of the Great Detective’s return. Sherlock’s back was as straight and taut as an arrow in a bowstring, his stance showing exactly how tedious he found this part of the debacle.  


The both of us were joined by Lestrade as we took our seats behind a narrow table, placed on the podium of the press room at Scotland Yard. I glanced at Sherlock, noting his roving gaze as it swept the room, taking in the appearance of the gathered press representatives with a swiftness which told me there wasn’t much there for him to observe. He was already beginning to look mildly bored and when he squared his shoulders I knew he was keen to have this over with as soon as possible.  


I turned my head to take in the gathered body of people as well and I can’t say I didn’t empathize with him: their eyes were shining with their eagerness at what this story might represent for them – syndication, a book deal, Pulitzer sniffing around their work. Yes, they looked at my friend seeing only what he represented, not why he was representing it. They hadn’t come for the praising of the man – they had come for the explanation of the sleuth: they wanted the motives of Moriarty and the truth of Richard Brook. It was when Sherlock calmly replied he wasn’t at liberty to discuss that part at this time that all hell broke loose.  


Shouts of obligations and deceit and conspiracies and “your brother Mycroft Holmes” and the government and what else has been shaded over, what else isn’t he at liberty to discuss, began to pour out of the people who soon were on their feet, trying to best each other for the scoop of the century, clawing and struggling and fighting to get their word in edgewise, all of them thinking they held the perfect key, forgetting completely the man who was the actual lock and without whom the door, which they were all so desperate to step through, would never swing open.  


“ _Enough_!” Lestrade now exclaims, rising with a hand slamming into the table.  


There is a dimming of the noise level and soon enough they all quiet down, muttering amongst themselves as they reclaim their seats and Sherlock turns his head to me with a widening of his eyes – he’s sorely unimpressed, but unsurprised at the behaviour. I grant him a brief smile and he returns it, focusing back on the assembled before him.  


¤

  


Soft sheets of rain drift against my face as we exit the Yard. The sensation is welcome, cleansing some of the tension off me after the dull exercise of answering inane questions posed by a pack of hyenas panting over their prey. I dislike feeling like a carcass being twisted on a spit. I did enjoy choosing what information to divulge and what to withhold, however. I smirk as I raise an arm and hail a cab. You notice my expression, smirking in unity and I open the door, allowing you to get in before I slide in next to you and give the address of a tailor’s on Savile Row.  


“Why didn’t you tell them about Moriarty?” you ask as I sit back next to you. “You know that’s why they came – you barely told them anything useful.”  


“They didn’t deserve anything useful,” I reply grudgingly.  


“Sherlock,” you say, reproachful, but there’s amusement there as well and I know you agree with me.  


“If I would have told them every detail about what happened,” I offer, your eyes in mine, “if I’d explained to them how Richard Brook was the pseudonym and Jim Moriarty was the actual man, if I’d gone on to tell them how he was someone who’d had a hand in most of the more grievous crimes of the past two decades, it would have undone what Mycroft has orchestrated around Richard Brook’s back story in order to buy some time; some time he’s mostly squandered, yes, but still, some of it remains. No, this is better. Moran doesn’t get it all in a neat little parcel. He doesn’t know precisely what we make of Moriarty yet. It’s better. I think.”  


“Well, if you think,” you reply grimly. “Why did you even agree to the press conference in the first place?”  


“Because now it’s official,” I answer you. “I’m alive.”  


“Want a handful of confetti to go with that?” you ask, which makes me smile crookedly as well, but it fades soon enough.  


“No,” I sigh. “There’s nothing to celebrate before Moran is locked away. This...” I pause, gazing out the window, thinking back on another gray day, colder than this, there was snow in the air, I remember. “Moriarty was a failure, John,” I admit. “I got too caught up in the web he weaved. I lost sight of…”  


I can’t finish. I can’t look at you, keeping my gaze on the white sky; on the pearls of water sliding down the window, making the world look wetter than it is, as though its moisture is coming from within rather than above. Somehow it’s a comforting thought. Even the earth can have tears on her face.  


I know you’re observing me. I wonder what’s going through your mind. I wonder if you blame me for my rashness. I underestimated him. I thought there would be time. I thought I could bring him down before things spun out of my control, but I thought wrong.  


“All you can ever really do is learn from your mistakes,” you then say and there’s a sincerity there that calms me, but there’s also a hard edge to the last word, one that I’m well aware will come back to bruise me every time my leaving without telling you is even hinted at.  


“Yes,” I acquiesce slowly, and your gaze lingers for another moment before you turn it out your own window and keep quiet for the rest of the ride.  


¤

  


The last time I was fitted for a suit was for my graduation from medical school. My mother insisted. I’ve never felt comfortable in a suit, if truth be told. They’re constricting and always make me feel rather like I’m trying to be someone I’m not. Silly, perhaps – the suit doesn’t make the man – but it does leave a certain impression. Sherlock’s frame was sculpted to carry off a tailored suit and with him the man actually makes the clothing look as it was always meant to, as supposed to me, where the clothing feels as though it’s obscuring the actual man beneath. Even when enlisted I felt more comfortable in the field attire than the formal wear.  


“Is this absolutely necessary?” I ask again as Sherlock steps off the small dais where he’s been measured by Mr. Berthram.  


Sherlock takes a gracious seat in one of the leather armchairs and merely grants me a look as reply, clearly bored with my repetition of the question. I drag my feet onto the dais, standing with my legs apart, as he did, and glaring at my reflection. My hair has gotten another shade of grey in it, my mouth has a few new lines, but even with my sullen mood I can’t help but notice that I look more myself than I have in a while. Sometimes over the course of the past year when looking in the mirror I’ve felt as though I’ve had a stranger staring back at me, someone going through the movements of his everyday and still feeling ill-fitted to perform the simplest tasks. I wish there wasn’t so much meaning tied to the man casually sipping his tea to my left, but clearly there is.  


“Black?” Mr. Berthram asks and I realize he’s not speaking to me as I open my mouth to reply – his eyes are on Sherlock.  


“Charcoal should do it,” he replies with a glance up at me.  


“I’m sorry, but...” I begin, Sherlock interrupting me with a:  


“We’ll need to dress our parts, John. Trust me in this.”  


I can swear there’s some other meaning behind that last request. I am almost certain that the word trust is used deliberately and I realize he’s observing me in that unnerving way he has of looking at me as though the first little spasm in my face will tell him all he needs and wants to know of my state of mind. So I frown – deeply – to show how little I appreciate not having any say in what I’m wearing. I’m a grown man, not a poppet he can toss around and dress up and down however he pleases.  


Though charcoal does sound better than black.  


“And what exactly will those parts be?” I wonder as Mr. Berthram pulls the measuring tape from my waist along the outside of my leg.  


“To win big, you play big,” Sherlock answers cryptically, putting his cup down and rising.  


“Great,” I mutter. “That’s great.”  


He lifts one corner of his mouth in a half-smile, his cheek crinkling up in a way that has always humanized him. His face can be an unmoving mask of stone, his eyes dead of emotion as his mind calculates with unfailing precision whatever problem is before it, but when he’s like this, when he’s relaxed in an environment not posing any threat or mystery to him, his warmth is allowed to break through. It reminds me of how his other side, the harshness to it, has a counterweight in this side and how easy I’ve always found it to appreciate them both for what they are, and him for what they make him.  


“Should we go to that place in St. John’s Wood for dinner?” he inquires; his head for once slightly tilted back to look up at me.  


I stare at him for a beat.  


“No,” I then reply, “we’re going to Audrey’s for dinner.”  


His eyebrows lift.  


“When was that decided?” he asks, looking as innocent as a lamb on its way to the slaughter and the imagery makes me feel savage for a moment, thinking of a meat cleaver and various uses for it, but then I merely reply:  


“Last night. I asked you. You gave me a verbal reply – I know not to bother when you’re not even responding, but you told me it was fine.”  


“Where are we having this dinner?”  


“I just told y-... At Audrey’s,” I repeat.  


He looks faintly disturbed by this news, moving away toward the rows and rows of colour coordinated suits, which hang on racks against the dark-wooden panelled walls. My eyes follow him as he continues up to the front window of the small shop, looking out on the heavy rain now falling, slicking the asphalt into a shiny black river, its surface from time to time being cloven by passing cars and double-deckers.  


Whatever unease I’ve felt about the coming evening is now enhanced a thousand times as I watch his slender form back-dropped by that suddenly strange world beyond the window; as though his return has changed everything around, flipped it upside down, and instead of setting things right he is going to make things shift out of place once and for all. I can either shift alongside them or remain static and end up in pieces.  


I don’t know why the notion sends a thrill of alarm through me, but I feel my pulse quicken at the thought of Sherlock being Sherlock and offending Audrey in such a way that it’s impossible for me to brush it aside as nothing. My mind reels at where that might land me. I’ll be caught, I know, and I won’t ever be able to fully forgive him because what would it be but a testament to how little respect he holds for me. The very idea leaves a bad taste in my mouth.  


The truth is: I don’t know what I am to him, and for whatever reason I’m not eager to find out this way.  


I take my eyes off him as Mr. Berthram asks me to stretch my arms out, my gaze meeting my own again before I look away from my reflection with something stubborn unfolding itself in my chest.  


¤

  


I choose a dark blue suit – so dark it borders on black. I got it the week after I arrived back in London. Most of my wardrobe is sadly still lingering at my brother’s; I need to make a point of remedying that. For this dinner, however, blue will suffice. A shirt that shifts in the same colour and patent leather shoes complete the ensemble.  


I take care to look impeccable – details tell everything about a person and I would sooner have my first impression be completely in my control.  


You’ve informed me you’ll meet me there. At half-six I arrive outside an unassuming apartment complex that might have had me contemplating suicide had I been left no choice but to take up residence in it. I climb the concrete steps to the door with a gilded number 16 on it and push the doorbell with a sudden sense of apprehension.  


It goes away when you open the door wearing a slight smile and a cardigan that takes me back to the first year we spent at Baker Street. I’m surprised I remember it so vividly, I usually don’t hang on to sentimental images, but you wore it the first morning after you had moved in, coming down to breakfast, and there was something in that moment that has clearly stayed with me. The novelty then of sharing accommodations with someone might perhaps be the reason; or having someone choose to greet me with a completely unassuming smile. The same kind of smile you’re wearing now, though I get the sudden sense that there is something worrying you.  


“Come in,” you prompt, taking my coat.  


The hall is narrow; its walls are eggshell white, half of one being covered by a rather charming painting consisting of red swirls. It makes me think of blood spatter and all the things you might learn from it, but on closer inspection it looks like finger painting and looses half its appeal.  


“Sorry,” a woman’s voice comes from somewhere beyond the doorway of the living room as I enter, “the bread is just about done and I’d rather it didn’t burn. I’m a horrible baker, I’m afraid,” the voice admits freely and I raise my eyebrows, clasping my hands behind my back as I turn and take in the skull spray- painted in bright pink right onto the black and purple patterned wall.  


“But a great cook,” you fill in and I turn to you, eyebrows still raised.  


You notice what my expression is in reference to and smirk.  


“Yeah, her sister’s an artist. Might even impress that mousy little delinquent of yours… What’s his name?”  
I give you a look before I turn my eyes back on the piece of art and have to agree with you – it’s pretty impressive. The shading makes it look as though it’s coming out of the wall. The proportions are just right. I wonder if she used a live still or if she painted it from memory. If the latter, I wonder if she had seen the skull, touched it, or if she merely saw a photograph of it. Either way, it’s skilfully captured.  


“It smells great,” I offer in a louder voice.  


A short laugh is heard.  


“Thanks, it’s nice to hear. I’m pretty intimidated, to be honest. John’s told me you’re a bit of a fussy eater.”  


I give you a withering glance and you raise your shoulders in a shrug, getting two candles off a side table and placing them on a dining table set for three, standing by the large set of windows. The table is prettily decorated with freshly cut flowers and nice china. The glasses and silverware all look clean. I can see nothing to disapprove of.  


The flat itself is slightly bigger than yours, but yours is a barely inhabited island whereas this is the heart of the world. There are splashes of colour everywhere, the sofa looks worn down and comfortable and there’s a shelf dedicated entirely to plays in the built in bookcase. I drift over to it, looking over the collection of novels taking up the rest of the space. Nothing tells you of a person quite like their book collection, I’ve found. Of course, the trick is always to notice which books are treasured and which are simply for show. The plays all look read about a hundred times each. They could be second hand, bought in thrift stores across the city, but there are no less than six different volumes of Hamlet and the skull on the wall gets a whole new meaning. A dedicated enthusiast, clearly. As there are no posters anywhere of shows where her name is written in bright letters, however, I can only assume that it is nothing beyond an amateur’s devotion to a craft.  


“There,” she says as she enters the room, this woman who has claimed a space in your life, and she gives me such a genuine smile I feel myself tense rather than relax. She doesn’t notice, reaching out a slender hand to me as she stops before me and adds: “At last we meet, Mr. Holmes. I’ve heard absolutely nothing about you so I’m looking forward to grilling you over prawn and garlic risotto.”  


“With bread,” I remind her, granting her a smile and taking her hand in a firm clasp.  


Her smile broadens as she looks over her shoulder at you.  


“You forgot to warn me about his sense of humour,” she remarks and I raise my eyebrows in wonderment at you, which makes you busy yourself with the napkins, something guilty in your stance and my eyes narrow briefly before Audrey and I release each other. “I hope you’re hungry,” she says.  


And I realize that the simplicity of that expressed sentiment is actually a test – if I answer no, it will be an obvious slight; even though she’s made it clear to me that you have told her of my eating habits and therefore she shouldn’t take it personal if I simply pick at my plate. Suddenly I’m intrigued. For some reason she’s as curious about me as I am dubious of her and what started out as a dull obligation is now shaping itself into something else entirely.  


My smile widens a fraction as I reply to her question with a simple:  


“Starving.”  


“Wonderful,” she returns, her smile as warm as before, but her gaze is studying me, beyond a doubt – and closely at that. “Have a seat, please, and I’ll get the starters. Just nibbles, don’t worry.”  


“Depends on the nibbles,” I say.  


That makes her laugh again. It’s a throaty burst of mirth and it makes your eyes follow her as she leaves for the kitchen. There’s tenderness in your gaze and for a moment my breath catches in my throat in the same way it did when I saw you with her that first time on the steps of the National Gallery. The burning of outrageous, unbidden possessiveness threatens to flame itself through me again, but I quench it as I find my breath and inhale. I detest this weakness. I’ve set myself on conquering it this time around instead of fleeing it, but I hadn’t expected to react like this. My head is fully aware of your feelings for this woman, why should it bring on a sense of shock at watching you interact with her in an intimate way? It’s baffling and absolutely unacceptable.  


I’m left slightly ruffled, but get myself quickly back together and go to take one of the chairs for my own, sitting down as you do the same, pouring me a glass of white wine. I look at the folded napkin on the plate before me and I don’t know why it would matter that your fingers folded it and that they did it because of her express need of your assistance, but it does. I grab it and put it on my lap instead, just so that I don’t have to look at it.  


Audrey returns with a basket of bread and two plates elegantly balanced in one hand – her waitressing skills showing themselves plainly enough. The dossier my brother so devilishly bestowed upon me contained enough background information on Audrey to help me form an idea of her character, though it said nothing of her cooking skills, or her passion for acting, or clear love of colour.  


My gaze rests on her as she serves me and retreats back to the kitchen to get the last plate.  


The starter is more an amuse bouche than anything else, consisting of a piece of roast beef on a small slice of fried bread with some sort of spicy pesto in between. It’s quite tasty. I chew it with Audrey watching me expectantly and once I’m done I grant her a smile that seems to set her at ease. I draw the conclusion that she sees herself on trial as well: she wants to make a good impression; in fact, it seems imperative to her that she does.  


“Now, then, Mr. Holmes,” Audrey begins and I interrupt her with:  


“Sherlock, please.”  


“Sherlock,” she nods. “What do you have to say for yourself?”  


“Oh, don’t get him started,” you interject, having a taste of your wine.  


Audrey smiles and I return it, but her elaboration actually manages to surprise me with its directness as she says:  


“Well, you were gone for quite a while and you left everything behind, really, but now that you’re back you simply pick up where you left off, as easy as that?”  


I know my gaze has grown inquisitive and I ignore the way you’re undoubtedly trying to stare me down as I observe her face. There’s no trace of an amateur here – if she wanted a career I’m sure she would grace the stages of the West End within a year. I’m rather impressed, in spite of myself. Usually your women are afforded a passing glance and even less mental space, but this one... I’m starting to understand why you’ve stayed with her for so long.  


“I take it John has explained why I left,” I say.  


It’s not a question.  


“He has,” she confirms.  


“And he’s told you of why I’ve returned,” I state.  


“Yes,” she nods.  


“Then why would you even need to ask me that question?” I inquire.  


She smiles then.  


“I’d like to hear you telling me why you left in order to save John’s life and still see fit to drag him into danger the minute you’re back,” she replies.  


There’s sharpness under her causality. I don’t show it, but her words cause a rivulet of unease to flow through me and it leaves a tingling in my skin. It’s unpleasant. My eyes harden and she notices, but doesn’t flinch – she expects an answer.  


“Dragging wasn’t necessary,” I finally reply, knowing there’s a whip in my tone as well and wishing it wasn’t there purely out of defensiveness.  


She has a mouthful of wine instead of making a response and I believe I might actually have hit on a nerve with that simple sentence. I can’t tell which, however.  


“Audrey,” you say – a plea there for her to stand down.  


Her face darkens for a second and she looks about to protest, but then she gives into you, her eyes in yours as her expression softens.  


“I’m sorry,” she directs at me. “I didn’t mean to open with that. Really, I didn’t. I thought we might chat about the weather or travel or how to know the difference between sedimentary and metamorphic rock, but... Well, anyway, John’s capable of making his own choices. I know that well enough.”  


She smiles at you as she rises to clear away the dishes and once she’s disappeared from view to get the main course you murmur:  


“Will you stop it?”  


I turn to you, rather wounded at your impatient tone of voice and you give me an even more impatient look to give it up.  


“What?” I ask, truly at a loss as to what you’re asking of me.  


“She’s not one of your samples,” you reply testily. “You’re looking at her the way you look through your microscope.”  


“I am not,” I protest and you shush me. “It wasn’t intentional. Well, sort of intentional, but she started it.”  


You’re about to open your mouth to say something to that, but Audrey returns with the food and you don’t get the chance. The risotto smells absolutely delicious, I wasn’t merely paying lip service before, and I look at you digging into the dish as I realize that what’s on our plates is there because you recommended it. When did you come to know me this well?  


I blink the thought away, tasting the risotto and commending Audrey, which makes her beam, first at me and then at you. There’s a silent exchange in your smiles that is like a hundred fingers squeezing my stomach into a tight ball and I grow breathless, coughing and grabbing my water glass.  


This is ridiculous. You being in a relationship has nothing to do with me or the relationship you and I share.  


Your eyes rest on me for a long moment. When I look at you there’s a quizzical and slightly concerned wrinkle on your brow, but I merely shake my head lightly and resume finishing off my portion of the risotto, feeling unsettled and incredibly annoyed with myself for allowing such a reaction to something as inconsequential as this.  


An hour later we’ve touched on topics involving the renovations on the tube, where to buy the best vegetables, how to get a risotto just right and a tendril of mundane and safe titbits that all the while feel as though they contain an undercurrent that keeps me interested: Audrey is threatened by me.  


I am trying to piece together the hints into something cohesive. Clearly the fact that I am responsible for introducing you to our current situation might be sufficient answer as to why she would be wary of me, but there is something deeper there. My mind flashes on how the first thing she said to me, face to face, was a statement, given with a careless air, of how she had heard absolutely nothing about me. You haven’t spoken of me to her, then. I’ve been a closed chapter to you, not worth sharing; or I’ve been something as private as grief, something not shared willingly.  


That makes me feel gleeful and I glance at you. Perhaps this moving on business didn’t come as easily to you as I thought. The expression you wore two nights ago, when I gently shook you from that nightmare, goes through my mind and it does strange things to my pulse before I tuck it resolutely away, focusing back on the present as Audrey rises for a third time to bring in the dessert.  


“Need a hand?” you ask.  


“No,” she says with emphasis, but her smile widens just before she disappears from view.  


“This is going well,” you comment.  


“She’s very...” I trail off.  


“Isn’t she?” you nod, finishing off your wine and pouring yourself another glass.  


“The suits will be ready tomorrow afternoon,” I inform you. “I billed them to Mycroft.”  


You smirk and we share a toast as Audrey returns once more, serving us before reclaiming her seat. The cheesecake has been decorated with fresh berries. I haven’t had a piece of cheesecake in years, but the smooth texture and full taste of it almost makes me close my eyes.  


“I’m forced to disagree with you,” I say to Audrey, who looks wondering. “You’re an excellent baker.”  


She smirks, looking suddenly mischievous before she admits:  


“It’s from the bakery round the corner.”  


That makes me chuckle and her giggle and you join in before Audrey raises her glass and we clink ours with hers.  


“The largest difference, by the way,” I begin as we proceed to enjoy the cake, “is that sedimentary rocks usually are created by deposition of grain, layer by layer, while metamorphic rocks are created by transformation through heat, pressure or chemical alteration.”  


“You know about rocks?” she asks and there’s amusement there.  


“He knows about everything,” you once more cut in, but there’s warmth in your voice, some semblance of admiration, and when I look at you there’s appreciation there as well. “Alright, maybe not everything,” you add and I get the feeling you’re teasing me.  


“I recently went to Scotland to visit a promontory,” Audrey says, getting both of our attention back on her. “Well, half that country is one great promontory, but this one has a vast collection of stacks, gorges and crags.”  


“And you went there to examine whether we can find the answer to the global changes we’re seeing in the history solidified in those rocks,” I finish. “Were you successful?”  


“We found a place to start,” she answers, eyes slightly widened at my observations. “It’s going to take years before we have anything conclusive.”  


“No doubt.”  


“We found soil there with carbon traces that date back ten thousand years,” she adds.  


“As good a place to start as any,” I offer.  


“Sherlock once wrote a two hundred and sixty page thesis on the most common dirt found along the Thames,” you inform Audrey, who raises her eyebrows.  


“Did you read it?” she asks you.  


“I read some of it,” you answer.  


“You read three pages,” I remark dryly.  


“Dirt, Sherlock. It was about dirt.”  


“You didn’t read the compilation I made of fungi either. That was only eighty pages.”  


“You make me feel like I’m taking a test whenever I try to read your stuff. You start asking questions as soon as I turn a page, like I’m bloody well back in school and right in the middle of a pop-quiz. It takes the fun out of it.”  


“So you’re saying that if I left you alone you would read ‘The Complete and Unabbreviated Guide to Household Fungi and Other Types of Mould’ and have ‘fun’ reading it?” I inquire, highly doubting it.  


Even as early as the first time we discussed my blog I’ve known that you would be a severe critic of my work. Perhaps that’s why I kept pushing it on you.  


You twirl your wine glass slowly on its foot, eyes on the clear liquid moving in gentle waves within it and I observe you relentlessly, waiting for you to snap until finally you more or less exclaim:  


“What good would it do me to read it? We don’t have mould, do we?”  


“It would be _nice_ ,” I reply meaningfully. “It shows support.”  


“When have I _ever_ not supported you?” you ask, your eyes in Audrey’s as though you’re expecting her to back you up, momentarily forgetting that this is the first evening she’s spending with the two of us.  


“Well, at least five times, if we’re counting the ones you’ve neglected to read the pages I’ve given you,” I answer you pointedly.  


“Oh, come on! You don’t want my _opinion_. Alright, fine, it’s boring. There – that’s my opinion. Why can’t you write a thesis on chocolate or self defence or how to see if someone’s guilty or not just by looking at them?” you wonder.  


“Chocolate?” I retort and it makes you smirk.  


“Might _learn_ something,” you offer.  


“I don’t write to learn – I write to inform, to exemplify, to enlighten.”  


“And the world’s a better place for it, knowing a bit more about exactly what type of dirt is beneath Big Ben,” you say with such an ironic glance Audrey’s way that I find myself bristling at your heedlessness.  


“You know as well as I that helped solve a murder,” I state defiantly. “As has most of my accumulated knowledge of riverbeds and what types of mud one can expect to find in them.”  


“Yes, but it still would have helped you whether I’d read the damned thesis or not, wouldn’t it? It’s not me needing to know these things, it’s you,” you shoot back.  


“I encourage you to partake in...” I begin, but you interrupt with:  


“Yes, but I only see half of the things you see. And that’s fine.”  


Whatever the argument was, it calms itself as quickly as it began. Half of them always do, while the other half become storms in confined spaces wreaking havoc until you step in to clean up after it. You’ve never faltered in that capacity and I’ve been grateful to you for that. I’ve never been good with keeping things tidy.  


“Well, I wish I could be out there with you,” Audrey makes us both turn our heads to her once more, smiling at the two of us. “Just to see for myself. I heard great things about you,” she adds, “when you were at your peak. Read about you, too, of course.”  


“You never said,” you smile and she lifts one shoulder in a shrug.  


“I didn’t want you to think that was why I wanted to see you,” she replies.  


“Where _did_ you meet?” I wonder.  


“At Mike Stamford’s,” Audrey answers and I look at you, your eyes meeting mine, this being enough for me to know you’re thinking of our first meeting, too, in that laboratory, with Mike.  


Then you look away, unable to keep a smile off and even though I can’t fully trace the origin of it I have to mirror it. Audrey looks slightly confused at the mirth we’re both showing and I shake my head for her to ignore it. Her gaze lingers for a moment on you and I note the sudden tension on her face, drawing itself into her expression for only a few seconds, but it’s enough for me to know that she’s uncomfortable, perhaps not to the point of disapproving, but she seems to be searching for something, some answer to some elusive question that she’s hoping you can grant her. It doesn’t seem that you do because as quickly as it appeared the tension leaves her. She gives up her search and rises again.  


“Let’s have some tea,” she says.  


You get to your feet as well this time, brushing her hands away and collecting the plates as you tell her to go put the kettle on. You stack the plates and follow her and I sit back on my chair, listening to the sounds of dishware placed in the sink and your easy conversation as you both prepare the tray, getting cups, getting tea bags, getting sugar and milk – these are well-known sounds from another time and the fire is in my chest again, only this time it burns low and unhurriedly and I find I want it there, suddenly feeling it’s better to warm myself by it than have it smothered by the numbness I’ve been craving ever since I left London.  


I look out the window as it begins to rain again, fat droplets splashing against the panes, pattering like fingertips wanting admittance into the dry and warm space. I almost rise and unlatch the clasp, but refrain.  


It’s not my window to open.  


¤

  


I watch as Sherlock pulls on his coat, wrapping his blue scarf around his neck in that familiar way before turning to us with a real smile. I am amazed by how well the evening has transpired and feel slightly ashamed for all the worrying I did before his arrival. All the excuses I had already filled Audrey’s head with before he even stepped through the door, telling her not to take anything personal and that whatever he might say, however bluntly he might put it, that’s how he is with everyone. He has no filter for when the truth is more hurtful than kind, I told her and she laughed and said that he sounded deliciously honest. Which he is – to a fault.  


“Thank you for a lovely evening,” he now says, taking one of Audrey’s hands in both of his, as sincere as I’ve ever seen him. “John. Tomorrow,” he adds to me with a tilt of the head, turning and heading for the front door.  


He disappears through it and I watch it close, wondering where he’ll be going now. Perhaps he won’t sleep all night. He will probably want to get an early start on whatever he’s planning for the morning. Might send some notes out to the Network, get some further information he still feels we’re lacking. And then he’ll spend the night in that dimly lit little room, destroying his eyes under the meagre lamp reading up on casinos or card games or what have you.  


Audrey slips her arm around mine and I look at her, almost startled at her presence. She smiles then and gives a sigh before she stands on her toes, kissing my cheek.  


“Go,” she encourages.  


I raise my eyebrows at her.  


“Don’t deny you want to go with him. It’s fine, John, please – go.”  


I hesitate, but I can’t deny it. The need to follow him is like a hand at the small of my back urging me forward. I give her a gentle kiss on the lips before I go to pull my shoes on. She leans against the doorway, crossing her arms loosely over her chest, watching me.  


“I understand it now,” she says as I lace up the second shoe.  


“What?” I wonder, rising and reaching for my jacket.  


“Everything,” she smiles and I give her another kiss before I’m in his wake, walking to the door. “John,” she stops me and I turn to her. There’s something tentative in her eyes and I pause, looking at her quizzically. She smiles again, gives a shake of her head and finishes: “Nothing. Just promise me you’ll be careful.”  


I give her a reassuring smile and leave the flat, fishing out my mobile, sending a text as I descend the stairs and soon I’m heading down the sidewalk. His answer comes almost immediately.  


_In a cab. Running errand. See you back at flat. SH_  


_Anything I can do? JW_  


_Write out messages on postcards. SH_  


So that’s how I’m the one to end up seated in the soft light of the lamp, my eyes growing tired as I’m just finishing the next to last message when Sherlock enters. He’s been gone over an hour and it’s getting late. I blink away the sleepiness as I watch him remove his coat and scarf, tossing them over the back of a chair before approaching me.  


“Good,” he says, looking over my work.  


“What do you need it for?” I wonder.  


“Not for me,” he replies, stretching himself out on the sofa. “For you. Bring it tomorrow.”  


“To the casino?”  


He opens his eyes and looks at me.  


“You sound sceptical,” he observes.  


“No, I just don’t see the connection,” I reply.  


“Of course you don’t,” he shrugs, closing his eyes again and therefore missing the glare I send his way.  


“What is it?” I inquire.  


“Moran,” he answers simply.  


My eyebrows rise as I put down the pencil, watching him for a few seconds in silence before I say with certainty:  


“You don’t know what the connection is either.”  


“I just told you,” he attempts to disagree, but I know his patterns too well and when he so blatantly puts me down I have no inclination to put up with them, and so I state:  


“No, you _think_ there’s a connection, but you don’t know what it is or even if it’s there, so you make it sound like you do when really you don’t.”  


He looks at me again. I don’t budge and finally he smirks.  


“There’s no conclusive data whatsoever, no, but the connection between the shootings and the casino is Sebastian Moran,” he replies.  


“But you don’t know what it means,” I remark.  


“No.”  


“Or if it even means anything,” I add.  


“True,” he acquiesces.  


I rest my eyes on him. His pallor is warmed by the light from the lamp, his cheeks bearing shadow traces which highlight his cheekbones and mouth and jaw line and I think how a few days earlier I hadn’t seen them for over a year; I hadn’t felt this anticipation at anything for months; I hadn’t even known how empty I’d become, even with everyone I’d decided to fill my life with. Even with Audrey.  


Her lips against my cheek earlier comes back to me as well as the sadness on her face when I first told her of Sherlock and the guilt makes me rise. Without anything better to do I begin to move the coffee table to pull out the bed tucked under the seat of the sofa. It’s the most uncomfortable thing I’ve ever had to sleep on and still I felt rested when I woke up this morning. Sherlock was already sitting by the desk, wearing a T-shirt and pyjama bottoms and a new robe in green satin, making me, for a moment, wonder where I was.  


He didn’t grant me so much as a glance as I got up and dressed and went for coffee and a couple of sandwiches. He drank the coffee in four hard swallows, ignored the sandwich and dressed as well before we headed to the Yard and the press conference. He barely said a word in the cab there and I kept quiet, knowing that was what he needed from me.  


Now he lies perfectly still on the sofa. I fell asleep well before him last night – if he even slept – and I know it’s pointless urging him to go to bed, so I undress, pull the T-shirt I slept in last night on and crawl under the covers.  


“Thank you,” he then says.  


I open my eyes and turn my head to him. He keeps his eyes closed, even though I know he knows mine are on him.  


“For what?” I ask.  


“For clearing my name,” he answers simply.  


I smile a little as the warmth that moves through my veins begin to heat my skin and I don’t know why such attention from him should make me feel so elated, but it does. The recognition is sweet and unexpected and the residual tension of the day evaporates in a moment.  


“It would’ve cleared itself,” I then say earnestly. “There were many people who believed in you. Not just me.”  
“John,” he says; soft reproach there and finally he looks at me.  


“It was... nothing. No trouble at all,” I reply, taking my eyes out of his as I’m growing self-conscious.  


His gaze lingers, I can tell, but I merely clear my throat lightly and shut my eyes, hearing how he gets up and takes the pillows off the sofa, putting the sheet down, and then the blankets before he begins to pull his clothes off. The lamp switches off the following moment and he steps onto the armrest, my eyes opening just as he lies down, covering himself with the blankets.  


My eyes narrow in the darkness.  


“You’re naked, aren’t you?” I more or less state.  


“You’re well aware of how I despise wearing constricting clothing while-...”  


“No, we’ve already had this discussion,” I interrupt.  


It had been a lengthy one the first time we had to share a room while on a case and I am not about to have it again.  


“John, I can’t see why-...”  


“ _Sherlock_ ,” I snap.  


He sighs softly in annoyance before his silhouette rises out of the sofa again, jumping onto the floor and shuffling around for his pyjama bottoms and T-shirt. He pulls them on with irritated movements before stepping right over me to lie back down, turning his back to me in demonstration of his aggravation with me.  


“Good night,” I say.  


I don’t get a reply.


	10. Make No Noise

**September 22nd**

  


The casino is situated practically on the river in a nondescript building – designed in the immediate years after World War II out of cheap red brick and masked as a Victorian factory, put up to try and ensure the citizens moving through the ruins of their bombed capitol that their government were going to rebuild and rebuild quickly. The casino has no name, boasting no sign and if you didn’t know it was there you might live in the neighbourhood behind it and never realize one of the most exclusive meeting places in London is just a stone’s throw away. When we step out of the cab, my eyes have grown round.  


“We’re going _here_? _This_ is the place?” I ask Sherlock.  


“Heard about it?” he wonders, eyebrows lifted questioningly.  


“Well, I’ve heard... some... Yeah. Yes, I have,” I reply, growing annoyed with myself for sounding precisely as caught out as I feel.  


I don’t want to go into why I’ve heard about it. I’ve decided that this excursion won’t be anything but another assignment alongside my colleague, there’s no reason my past should play any part in it. It’s not even my recent past. It’s my pre-army past. A long time ago. And I don’t want to tell him about it. I’ve had my slight inclination under complete control for over a decade – it hasn’t worried me that I wouldn’t be able to handle this situation.  


However, _this_ place is something out of the ordinary. It’s the Fight Club of the gaming community, where you don’t talk about it unless you’ve been initiated; something of a Holy Graal where only the best come to play and win big or lose gracefully. Well, _usually_ there’s grace involved. I almost thought the place was a myth and now old urges make themselves known at the mere thought of seeing what the hush has been all about.  


“From who?” Sherlock asks as we near a set of double doors, both made out of thick wooden planks and painted black.  


“Hmh?” I raise my eyebrows distractedly, watching as he reaches out and pulls the left door open.  


“From who have you heard about it?” he elaborates and I realize his eyes are watching me intently – it makes me snap out of it.  


I proceed inside, giving a shrug and mumbling something about an old friend mentioning it in passing, hoping I sound as nonchalant as I would wish, feeling Sherlock’s gaze still resting at the nape of my neck as we continue into a wide lobby.  


The ceiling is low and has an intricate pattern of flowers inlaid into its plaster, the plaster – as the door – is covered with a layer of black paint. The walls are dressed in silk of a deep crimson with discreet sources of light placed at even intervals in the floor. Partially covered with what is the largest Oriental rug I’ve ever seen – clearly it must be close to priceless – the floor itself is made out of a dark, polished wood. There is no art on the walls, I notice, and the room is filled with nothing but complete silence.  


There is a set of double doors at the other end of the room, echoing the ones we just entered through, and in front of those is a reception desk made out of the same dark wood as the floor. When we approach it I realize the desk is high enough to reach my chest and once we’re before it I almost have to stand on my toes to be able to look over it. In the following moment there’s no need for that, though, as the man behind it stands from his chair. He has no nametag, but his name is not of much consequence as it’s clear from his tall, broad frame that he’s not easy to get around if you were looking to sneak past him. Luckily – we’re not.  


Sherlock looks different with his hair slicked back, wearing a pair of simple, silver-rimmed glasses and a dark grey suit with an almost blindingly white shirt on underneath – both of which were delivered, as promised, this morning, along with my charcoal suit and grey shirt. He has an openly honest expression on his face now, looking wonderingly at the man in front of us before he stutters:  


“Yes, well, h-hello.” He gives a suddenly uncertain smile. “We’re here for the... Well, the... We were told you were exp-p-pecting us. I’m T-Terrence Hartley and this is James T-Thacker.”  


He clears his throat and squares his shoulders as though he’s actually realizing that he’s losing his authority and is trying very hard to rectify the matter. I try not to stare at him, but it is uncanny when he does this and I haven’t had the privilege of one of his performances in quite some time. He seems to carry a set of characters around with him wherever he goes and finds it so easy to dress himself in one of them.  


“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” I try to fit myself into the situation as I aim to soothe him, glancing at the man behind the desk as he lowers his gaze to what I assume is a ledger on the desktop below. “Laurence said he’d put our names down. You can always trust in Laurence,” I add reassuringly.  


Sherlock sends me another of those near to trembling smiles before he corrects his glasses nervously.  


“Except for that one t-time,” he then murmurs, “with the h-h-hang gliding incident.”  


I can’t keep down my smile, but hope it merely looks like a friend comforting another friend as the man looks up at us again. Then he offers us a broad, whitened smile, like a predator attempting to look compassionate, but somehow merely accomplishing a different kind of threat.  


“Mr. Hartley, Mr. Thacker, welcome,” he says. “I will quickly tell you of the five guidelines of the establishment. Firstly, there is no smoking allowed anywhere in the building. Secondly, there is no photography, video or audio recording permitted. 

Thirdly, when you’ve entered a room there is no leaving it until the game is finished. Fourthly, all games are closely monitored by our staff and cheating will result in serious repercussions; we advice strongly against it. And finally, you are not allowed to speak of what you see or experience here to any outsider. Discretion is something which everyone who comes here appreciates and so far no one has failed to respect those they may meet at our tables.”  


“Well, discretion is what we came here for,” I state. “Isn’t that right, Terrence?”  


Sherlock smiles tremulously.  


“Yes, yes, it was, yes, indeed, James, it was just that,” he stammers, nodding.  


“Your accounts are all in order, sirs,” the man says. “Go right on through.”  


He says the last with a nod to the doors behind him and we move around either side of the desk, both of us reaching for a door handle each, pulling on them. My door is heavier than I’d expected, making a hushed whisper against the floor as it opens and once more as it closes behind us.  


We share a look before we split up.  


I try to ignore the nagging question of exactly how much money Mycroft has transferred into Terrence’s and James’ accounts. On top of a hefty entry fee to join this elite club, you need to have a proven record of previous games to be granted access to the tables and so I can only assume Mycroft has given our false identities a set of false identities; I hardly think any of the major figure heads of British law, media and politics would use their actual names in that ledger. It’s of no consequence that I don’t actually know who I’m supposed to be since here they are conditioned not to ask questions or answer them. Which makes our task that much more difficult.  


Sherlock has instructed me to observe, to memorize the details, to analyze the visuals I’m receiving instead of merely registering them. Easy if your mind works the way his does, a bit more difficult if you’re not quite sure of what observations will prove useful.  


“All of them,” he told me this morning when I brought it up, his tone rather impatient. “You can’t know beforehand, John.”  


“You want me to remember everything?” I asked and at the irony in my voice his gaze looked apt to cut me if I made the wrong movement.  


“This may be our only opportunity,” he retorted sharply. “According to agent Marks the place is a fortress; a well-guarded, tightly secured and impregnable fortress, John. And its devil will be in the details.”  


“So – you want me to remember everything,” I clarified just as there was a knock on the door and Sherlock let Mr. Berthram in, delivering our order himself.  


The corridor I’m now moving through is painted a deep forest green, the ceiling – still black – bearing a beautiful lacework of flowers while the floor is covered in a carpet the same colour as the walls. It brings on the illusion of walking through a dense, night time forest with a floor thick with pine needles as my steps are barely making a sound.  


The corridor seems endless, but finally I reach a T where I can choose left or right. I choose left as I see a woman standing outside a door a little farther down. The door is closed and made out of dark wood heavily carved with an Oriental pattern. The woman wears no nametag, her brown hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, her hands clasped behind her back. She’s wearing black, high-waist tuxedo trousers, a green silk girdle and a white, starched shirt with a black bowtie. Her eyes meet mine and she returns my smile pleasantly enough. I notice four different coloured buttons in the wall to her left – the crimson one is lit.  


“Hi,” I say hesitantly.  


“Hello,” she replies.  


“Does that red light mean I can’t join?” I wonder.  


“This room is at capacity,” she confirms.  


I hesitate, about to ask her some more of my questions, but her eyes are telling me to move on and so I do.  


I continue down the corridor and can see a second door not far ahead. Even from where I am now I can tell the carvings on this door are different, the grooves broader. A young man, dressed in what is obviously the uniform of the casino, as it is exactly what the woman was wearing, stands positioned rigidly with his hands at the small of his back outside it.  


I notice the yellow light glowing dimly next to him and catch a sudden scent of chicken curry and spices that make me think of a small Indian restaurant that we used to frequent in my senior year of medical school.  


“Is there...?” I begin.  


“This is a closed game, sir,” he interrupts.  


“But the light... It’s yellow,” I point out for no good reason.  


The young man looks as though he can’t believe I actually talked back at him and I raise my eyebrows as I get myself moving away from him. I round a second corner into a longer stretch of corridor where six uniform-clad employees stand outside six doors. Two of them have red lights and so I don’t even bother stopping at those; another two have yellow lights, but I stop in front of the second of these, asking the girl before it – her blonde hair in a braid down her back and her eyes a bit kinder than her predecessors – what the yellow light means.  


“The game has been delayed for half an hour,” she replies, curtly enough for me to understand there’s no point asking her to tell me more.  


It’s all a game, I realize. Choosing the right door is only the first gamble. You don’t know what’s beyond it, or who, or if you’ll even know how to play whatever hand you’re dealt.  


I consider this as I walk to the next door, by which stands an older gentleman, looking down at me as I stop before him – he’s a head taller than me and I have to bend my neck back to look up at him before I glance at the four lights: the blue one is lit. I cock an eyebrow.  


“Is this game open?” I ask.  


The man gives a nod, steps aside and opens the door for me.  


I hadn’t expected that at all and suddenly my heart is thumping violently in my chest, beating out its protest and elation in equal measure at the possibilities waiting just a few steps away. I glance at the man, wondering what he would do if I decide to back out of my request, but then I remember Sherlock’s words the day before – to win big, you play big – and come to the conclusion that it’s better to play the game to the full.  


And so I enter.  


¤

  


The casino is a labyrinth, cleverly designed to fold into itself over and over; down and up I follow its corridors, all of them painted a dark green, with black ceiling and green carpet. I make my way via narrow stairs that take me down half a floor, then up two. And it’s quiet. Above all. It’s a reverent sort of silence. This is a place of worship, where men of greed and power and wealth come to pray to their gods and make sacrifices at their altars. Coin as religion: the darker side to humanity. After all, religion will always lead men to commit the most outrageous acts while staying piously self-righteous.  


I wonder how you’re progressing. I walked left while you walked right at the entrance and we’ve yet to meet. The labyrinth is crooked and twisting, but I keep my bearings. I have passed over two dozen doors, all guarded by men and women wearing the same uniform. The lights in the wall beside them have all been different: crimson, yellow, blue or green. I’ve said nothing to these guards and they’ve barely afforded me a glance: discretion.  


The lavish carvings in the heavy wood of the doors clearly tell the seasoned member what type of game is being played behind it, but as a novice I have no way of determining what sort of game I would enter if I chose one of them. I suppose this is part of the thrill and I wonder if they change the games from time to time to keep the experience fresh.  


Outside three of the doors with a yellow light I can distinctly scent food of different origin, leading me to believe this light is connected with a pause in the game. Outside nine of the doors the light is crimson, which is plain enough. Outside eight of the doors the light is blue while four doors show a green light. A green light should stand for access. By simple process of elimination I determine the blue light to mean a game is in progress, but accepting new players – while the green light signals a game has yet to begin and is open to all.  


This deduction is made quickly as I’ve accumulated enough data to form an opinion that feels satisfying in its simplicity. My mind, however, is more focused on finding the proper connection between the shootings and this building. After over an hour of walking the corridors, climbing stairs and descending them, I realize this is all I’m granted access to. There is no lounge, there is no main floor, there is no bar or restaurant. Meals are ordered and served within the safe cocoons of the game rooms. Every guest is afforded the courtesy of complete privacy and is not presented with the possibility of a situation where they may need to make idle small talk with a fellow member.  


Neat. Tastefully so. If Mycroft was a betting man he would frequent this establishment without any hesitation.  


I told you to meet me at ten o’clock at the entrance. It’s only eight-fifteen. I decide to make my way back. I have some interest in that ledger the anonymous doorman was keeping. It wasn’t digital and I don’t blame the people running this place for wanting to keep their records free from the pest that is the modern hacker. I smirk to myself as it’s a shame they’re so diligent – I know someone who would’ve enjoyed doing me a favour.  


I pull a hand through my hair to make it look a little less tidy before I push through into the lobby, the anonymous doorman turning his head as I move around the counter, a little breathless.  


“That’s a maze in there, h-have you been in there? It’s a maze. I h-have to admit I get a little claustrophobic and I worked myself up when I... couldn’t find my way back,” I say, producing a careful smile as I correct my glasses. “Mind if I... if I get some air?” I finish.  


The man grants me a smile, shaking his head.  


I walk up to the main entrance doors and out through them, drawing in a deep breath. My eyes scan the surrounding buildings while the soft cluck of the Thames and the far off noises of the city fill my head, making I wish I could hit pause and make them stop their intrusion.  


I put my hands on my hips and have a walk around, gulping air as though I’m actually afflicted by a minor anxiety attack, sensing that it doesn’t matter what I do – they already know who we are. We’ve been watched since long before the press conference, if I’m not mistaken, and this is simply an indulgence of our opponent: he wants to see how far we can get before he has to cripple us.  


I ignore the chill that ices itself through me at the thought, turning to look up at the facade of the casino, but there are no obvious signs of any surveillance being performed. It’s easily enough hidden, but agent Marks was convinced there was none – for the absolute privacy of their guests the owners have foresworn electrical surveillance of any kind anywhere in the building.  


It’s nine-twenty and I have another forty minutes to wait. I choose to do so inside, asking the anonymous doorman sporadic questions of the decor of the room once in a while, explaining I’m waiting for you as I couldn’t make up my mind about which room to enter.  


All the while I’m taking note: ten new guests enter, giving their names to Anonymous who checks the ledger, writes something in it and waves them through the doors; every fifteen minutes an employee in the casino uniform, but – as supposed to the doormen – wearing a short black tuxedo jacket as well, will come to have a status update, Anonymous always answering with simply “Clear”.  


I come to understand how the quiet of the lobby is as deceptive as the rest of the building: instead of hearing slot machines and rolling die and people winning or losing all one hears in this place is one’s own breathing. Not only does it make you feel calm, it makes you feel in control, it makes you feel safe. Quite brilliant.  


I consider the problem of the three shooting victims: they were three men who walked into this establishment not entirely belonging, a little out of their league, but still embraced as they all must have been excellent at whatever it was they could respectively bring to the table. Who introduced them? What was it that tied them together? Did they meet here or somewhere outside, realizing what they had in common? What was it that brought Moran to make an example out of them?  


Finally the doors open and you walk through them, followed by four men and two women. One of the men slaps your shoulder and you share a smile that seems too intimate to be between two strangers and I frown at you when you stop by me.  


“Did you know that man?” I ask, my eyes following him as he and the group leave through the doors.  


“Never met him till tonight,” you answer.  


My brow smoothes as I can see you’re telling the truth; furthermore – the expression on your face is swiftly confirming my suspicions.  


“How much?” I inquire.  


“I don’t...” you trail off.  


“How much did you win?” I clarify and you can’t hold the smile down. “You won’t get to keep it. It’s Mycroft’s money, Mycroft’s winnings. He’ll be delighted. Might even send you a card. They’re big on cards within the government, I hear.”  


I glance over at Anonymous before I turn back at your slightly souring expression and say:  


“Fools for six.”  


You follow my eyes to the man and give a nod as confirmation that you know which case and which instance I’m referring to. Without further ado you follow me as I head up to the counter. You bring out your pencil and notepad as we approach, positioning yourself to my left as I lean my elbows on the countertop.  


Anonymous has gotten to his feet again, listening to my rambling questions of what you do in order to collect your winnings and you casually drop the pen on the floor, his eyes following you as you lean forward to pick it up. Your fingers fumble, however, setting the pen to begin rolling across the floor. It makes a low, rumbling sound as it goes and when the man stoops over to assist you, you straighten quickly, a hard thud being heard as the back of your head connects with his face and he gives a yell before he loses his balance and falls back onto the floor, sprawling there the next moment – unconscious.  


You’re rubbing your scalp as you get your pen, giving me a pained glance.  


“Next time I get to do the chatting,” you say, to which I smirk, having already moved around the desk to begin flicking through the pages of the ledger.  


I go back as far as May and start reading through the names.  


“If they were here, then their names should be reoccurring and it’s quite possible one or more of them won big right before they began getting picked off,” I explain, my finger running down page after page as your eyes scan the room, lingering on the doors, expecting Anonymous’ cavalry to come at any moment and haul us off. “Relax,” I therefore say. “We have at least five minutes.”  


You give me a look, but refrain from asking me to elaborate.  


“That should do it,” I say, heading around the desk toward the doors.  


“Shouldn’t we just bring the book?” you ask as you follow.  


“No, that would only antagonize them,” I reply, shouldering the door open and leading the way outside.  


“Did you remember everything?” you retort.  


I grant you another smirk at that.  


“Come along, James,” I encourage as we head across the gravelled yard and onto the sidewalk.  


¤

  


“The girl – she said yellow meant delayed,” I tell him as we enter his accommodations twenty minutes later. “One of the postcards said ‘Flight delayed’ – I double-checked the list I wrote out.”  


Sherlock is nodding as though he’s already circled that conclusion and left it behind, which annoys me, but I ignore the well-known emotion as I watch him bring out the stack of postcards from the mess on the desk, spreading them out on the sofa and turning from them almost immediately with a look of fury on his face.  


“What a stupid, _stupid_ mistake,” he barks.  


“Sherlock,” I say and he paces the two steps there’s room for, back and forth a few times, shaking his head before he points at the postcards.  


“I noticed they’d made an effort. See how they have all used the same type of lettering? The shape of their a’s is particularly distinct.”  


“What’re you saying?”  


“There’s not three different hands on those postcards, John – there’s four.”  


“A fourth?”  


Sherlock nods, pulling the back of one hand across his lips in a way he only does when he’s truly upset with himself and I wish I could soothe him, but it would be pointless to even try. He hates blunders, he can’t stand mistakes, and when they originate with him it enhances his distaste a thousand fold. He won’t be easy again until he’s solved this case. And if there’s a fourth...  


“He’s still out there,” I say.  


“I should have seen this,” Sherlock insists, berating himself. “Three victims: a student, a junior stockbroker and a shop assistant and they communicate using flight information? It didn’t make sense to me, but it isn’t a very big leap to consider they may have gotten their inspiration from another source, is it?” I don’t reply – he’s not expecting me to. He’s pacing again. “Obscured by the obvious,” he mutters.  


“So the fourth man has something to do with planes? A flight captain?” I prod cautiously.  


“Mh. Or something like it. Possibly a flight attendant, that’s where he might’ve met him,” Sherlock states, swirling on his heel and stalking up to the desk, beginning to rifle through the papers covering it, digging out his laptop and promptly taking a seat on the chair, which creaks ominously under his weight, but holds.  


“Met who?” I ask, watching him open the laptop and wait for it to warm up.  


“Whoever brought these four together,” he answers.  


“What are you doing?”  


“Writing down the ledger,” he replies, opening up a blank Word page and beginning to type out names.  


I stare at him, incredulous for a few long seconds before I give a slight huff at his superhuman capacities and go sit down on the sofa.  


¤

  


“You have to be introduced into the sanctity of the casino,” I say to you an hour later and you meet my gaze, looking up from the paper you’ve been glancing at from time to time for the best part of half an hour without turning the page.  
I’m still seated on the chair, but my legs are put up on the armrest of the sofa, the laptop momentarily abandoned on the desk.  


“Unless you have a big brother like Mycroft,” you offer and I give you a crooked smirk as affirmation before I continue:  


“These four – they didn’t meet by chance. They were introduced into it for a reason. I believe whoever found them and brought them together wanted to use them to break the bank.”  


Your eyebrows rise.  


“You mean cheat the house?” you ask.  


I nod, thoughtful.  


“Anyone who’s ever spent a night in that place has to have known how hard it would be,” I state.  


“So the man who brought the four together is a member and probably a long-term one,” you fill in and I nod again. “How do we find him?”  


“Through the three already dead,” I answer. “We have their names, their faces – all we need to do is look for information where the police haven’t. If they have been in the gambling circuit for any amount of time chances are they have used aliases before. If we find one of them, we’ll find all of them.”  


With that I rise and walk up to the door. You get to your feet without question, following me.  


We go to the west gate of Regent’s Park, where a middle-aged man with a black beard peppered with gray and eyes that are watery blue is seated with a sign that says simply ‘Hungry’. I put a ten pound note in the plastic box before his feet and when he reaches up a hand to shake mine I deliver another fifty pound note into his cold palm with a hastily scrawled message folded up with the money.  


“Much obliged,” he says, smiling.  


I give him a nod before we turn and head back to the apartment.  


“Now what?” you ask.  


“We wait,” I reply.  


¤

  


The waiting game is sometimes Sherlock’s favourite part of an investigation. It’s when his mind is working over all the possible scenarios that might come from all the different variations of information he’s likely to receive and though he wouldn’t choose to act on anything less than sufficient fact, he still enjoys it when he gets it right and the information delivered makes the puzzle in his mind click effortlessly into place. Sometimes, however, it’s the part he hates the most; like now – when there’s already too little data to go on, only sky blue puzzle pieces and nothing to offer up anything cohesive. He doesn’t dabble in improbabilities.  


“Do you think Moran and Moriarty knew each other?” I ask him to offer him some sort of distraction.  


I’m on the pull-out – which needs fresh sheets, I’ve concluded; I might bring an extra set from home tomorrow – while Sherlock is standing at one of the windows, where he took up residence not long after we got back from the park. His arms are loosely crossed over his chest, his eyes having been focused on the same spot for twenty minutes and I can feel the tension radiating off of him like heat waves.  


“Hmh?” he mumbles without looking at me.  


“You have a knack for collecting arch nemesis,” I comment. “Ever wonder why?”  


“No,” he replies, but his cheek wrinkles in a sideways smile and he turns his head to me.  


I smirk as well.  


“Do you think they knew each other?” I repeat.  


“Who?” he wonders.  


“Moran and Moriarty,” I answer.  


He considers it.  


“It wouldn’t surprise me,” he says. “How well they might’ve known each other is another question. Jim Moriarty was a megalomaniac with a narcissistic core and undoubtedly he had trouble finding anyone to trust. Still...”  


“Still?”  


“Every leader needs a second in command. Especially with the careful way the syndicate is run where nothing is traceable back to those actually giving the orders.”  


“So?”  


“Moran has stepped in to fill a position he must have had some insight into and he’s gotten the support of those vying for the same spot. That takes a fair amount of respect. I’d say it’s possible they knew each other well. Whatever that means.”  


The last comment makes me smile, though I’m none the wiser to exactly what knowing Jim Moriarty “well” could possibly mean. The cold, blue light of a pool falling across Sherlock’s stunned expression, the weight of the bomb strapped to my chest, the certainty that we were both going to die bleeding in that humid room – these are memories that make me think that I would prefer never to know what kind of human you would have to be in order to stomach being Moriarty’s close and personal friend.  


“The ushers,” I now say, “or doormen or guards or whatever they were – they all had military training.”  
“Yes,” he agrees immediately. “There for security. The casino isn’t wired in any other way and the physical security is to the minute regular; which is its one weakness – it’s predictable.”  


“Good to know.”  


He raises his eyebrows in meaningful agreement.  


“Describe the room,” he says; his eyes flicking to mine before leaving them again and suddenly my pulse quickens and my palms grow sweaty as I’m back in the rush of clasping those cards and realizing that I am – without a doubt – holding a winning hand.  


I blink the moment away, afraid it’s going to be readable on me, and reply:  


“Dark blue walls, blue carpet, black ceiling. There was some sort of jazz playing, I think. One of the other players had requested it and nobody seemed to mind. It was a game of stud poker, if you’re curious. And... Oh, they served snacks from a trolley.”  


“How did the food get in the room?”  


“There was a second door.”  


He gives me a look and I realize perhaps I should’ve mentioned that first.  


“So there is a maze within the maze,” he murmurs. “For the employees to get in and out.”  


“Is that... good?” I ask.  


“It might be,” he replies. “But I’m fairly certain that part of the building will be under a different kind of surveillance and sneaking in would be near impossible.”  


“I always appreciate how you say ‘near’ like it’s a personal challenge,” I remark dryly and he smirks.  


“How much staff was in the room with you?” he wonders.  


“One croupier; two more who did the serving.”  


“And the watching,” Sherlock fills in, cocking an eyebrow. “They do take cheating seriously. Anything else?”  


I shake my head.  


“We should get some sleep,” I tell him.  


“I’m not tired,” he replies, his gaze beginning to grow distant again and I send a disapproving frown his way before I say:  


“Sherlock,” getting his eyes in mine again, “you may like to think that you’re some creature above all these human needs, but the fact is you have to sleep to function.” He begins to grow sullen because he is tired and like the overgrown child he is he simply doesn’t want to admit it. “You’re killing off brain cells,” I inform him lightly and finally he gives a soft sigh and rises to undress.  


I look up at the ceiling, at the dark yellow pattern of a water stain against the cream white, thinking how very different it is from the understated workmanship of the ceiling at the casino. I think back to the hush of the carpet, my pulse in my ears being the only noise, and how the place had enclosed me in stillness. It had been restive rather than strenuous and the exhilaration granted at the end of it had been unexpected, but welcomed.  


He steps onto the armrest before lying down next to me – I made the bed up for him as I got myself ready, rather than having him fuss with it after I’d gotten somewhat comfortable.  


“The light,” I reproach softly.  


“I don’t mind,” he answers.  


“I do,” I remark.  


“So turn it off,” he more or less shrugs.  


Sometimes his logic is nothing but aggravating. I leave it on, only to make some sort of a point, though I’m sure it’s blunt and missing its mark completely. I stare at the ceiling for another half hour; Sherlock’s breathing slowing beside me until he’s giving off quiet snores. I turn my head to look at him. He’s on his side and after another minute I reach out and give his shoulder a poke, which makes him mutter something inaudible before he rolls onto his back – the snoring ceasing. That makes me smile a little to myself at my small demonstration of power over him and I close my eyes.  


**September 23rd**

  


I wake you as I accidentally stumble against the pull-out on my way to the door. Your eyes are half-closed with sleep as you try and focus on me; still you wear a wondering expression as you take in my fully-clothed person.  


“What time is it?” you ask, voice husky.  


“Almost three,” I answer, protesting as you begin to sit up, placing a hand on your shoulder and making you lie back down. “It’s fine, John. I’ll be back in an hour. You sleep.”  


“Sherlock,” you murmur, but I’m already half-way out the door and I close it behind me, not waiting for your elaboration.  


I like this time of night. It’s late enough to almost be morning, but the city is still left to its own devices, the only ones up are the taxi drivers and the bakers. Walking further into the centre would undoubtedly lend me some more activity to observe as the Saturday night party goers and club dwellers make their way home, but that’s not why I left the room.  


I head toward Regent’s Park, past Primrose Hill, along the wrought iron fence of white painted townhouses. This used to be a suburb a hundred years ago and now the city itself has bled out and connected its nerve-endings to townships that once played host to weekend getaways and picnics for the inhabitants of the town. And still do, to some extent. I wonder why I linger on the thought of a picnic long ago in Hampstead Heath where Mycroft scraped his knee and father was quiet all the way back home and didn’t speak a word to my brother for almost a fortnight until Mycroft finally concluded that the reason was because he had ruined his new trousers in the fall. He had apologized to father for the cost and father had told him... What did he tell him?  


I continue into the park, along the Broadwalk, passed the London Zoo and toward Chester Road until I spot her, a small, freckly girl of seventeen or so, seated on a bench wrapped in a coat two sizes too big for her. Her face is clean, however, and she has a pair of warm leather gloves on. She’s missing a hat and I tell her as much when she hands me the note she’s been keeping in one of the coat pockets. She smiles shyly at my remark.  


“I’ve got a scarf,” she informs me, showing it where it’s tucked around her neck. “’S good enough, sir.”  


I grant her a nod at that, handing her two fifty bills and turning to leave just as her face grows astonished at the amount of money I left with her. Part of me regrets it – I don’t want the Network to get greedy, as little as I want the others to feel as though I’m favouring some above others – but she looked cold and hungry and miserable and alone.  


_I will not have my eldest son crying like an infant over a bloodied knee. Scars are what show the world what kind of man you are, Mycroft, you should wear them proudly, not grieve them. Understand?_  


Scars are what show the world what kind of man you are. Yes, I remember that speech well. And I understand now why this particular memory has chosen to surface: two nights ago I caught sight of your scar for the first time, decorating your shoulder like a badge of honour, whitened tissue against pale skin. A testament to your selflessness and how you’re not one to hesitate when faced with the necessity of putting yourself in the line of fire.  


What would you have done if I had come to you and told you of Moriarty? I know what you would have done. Can you see that? Can you see how your willingness to sacrifice yourself for others would have befuddled the outcome this time? How it had to be me or everything would have come undone for us?  


I don’t want to think about this. I see no point in asking questions I can never find the answer to on my own. And posing them to you... I don’t want to prod deeper into this subject in case it stirs up something new, something else than acceptance. You’ve accepted me back into your life, I should leave it there.  


I re-enter the room and find you asleep. It pleases me. You deserve rest. That, at least, I can grant you.  


I remove my coat, my scarf, walking up to the lamp and unfolding the note to read it in the glow of the bulb. A surge of satisfaction moves through me and I turn around, forgetting my previous sentiments completely as I grab your ankle and unceremoniously shake you awake.  


“What?” you practically yell, clearly startled as your eyes meet mine.  


Your face turns gloomy, possibly because I’m smiling, and I toss the note to you as I say:  


“Read that; then get dressed. No time like the present.”  


You’re glaring at me, I know, but once you’ve glanced at the note you scoot with a yawn to the edge of the pull-out and rise.


	11. Hoarding Question Marks

We take the morning train to Brighton and arrive at six-thirty. I can’t go back to sleep on the train, no matter how much I would’ve liked to, and spend the ride in the silence Sherlock is emitting, watching the countryside appearing like a slideshow outside the large window: pasture, field, hill, town, pasture, field, hill, town. Until there is sea. I haven’t been outside of London in a while and the fresh air when we step off the train is revitalizing, serving to clear my head slightly and making me dare to venture into opening my mouth.  


“Who is it we’re seeing?” I ask.  


“You know who we’re seeing, you read the note.”  


I’m sleep-deprived and not in the mood for this and I give his back a dark look before I retort:  


“Yes, thank you, I’m aware – but I don’t know who this person is, do I? Do you?”  


He squares his shoulders, tucking his hands in the pockets of his coat as I come up beside him and when I glance at him I conclude that of course he doesn’t know who it is. Good thing I brought my gun. If this person is someone with inside information about our shooting victims’ hidden past, we might be meeting with someone not inclined to talk and even less inclined to talk to strangers.  


The note was simple and to the point – the members of the Homeless Network being aware of what Sherlock appreciates from them in terms of communication – and so it only had a last name and an address written on it.  


_Pascal. New Meadow Mews, Apartment C, Brighton._  


It turns out to be a tucked away side street not far from the waterfront with a tree growing in the middle of a miniscule inner courtyard. Three doors flank it, all in a bright red colour that is peeling off in places. Sherlock raises an arm and knocks forcefully on the door with a C on it.  


No movement from inside.  


He knocks again.  


It takes another moment and then there’s the unmistakable sound of shuffling feet as someone approaches the door from the other side. Two locks are undone in a fumbling and slow manner and it takes thirty seconds before the door is finally cracked open and an eye is peering at us through the slit.  


“Can I help you gentlemen?” a voice with a soft, French lilt to its accent asks and I realize the supposed man we’re seeing is actually a woman.  


“I am Sherlock Holmes and this is my colleague John Watson,” Sherlock introduces us.  


The eye narrows.  


“Ms. Pascal,” Sherlock says, but the door is quite suddenly shut tight and the locks are being put back into place – by fingers more dexterous, it seems.  


I raise my eyebrows when Sherlock glances over at me. He hadn’t anticipated quite such a brutal rebuff, it would appear, and he actually looks slightly stumped as to where to go from here. We can’t very well be yelling our business with Ms. Pascal to a door for all the world to hear, now can we?  


“We’re here to discuss a possible connection between you and three murder victims in London,” I raise my voice, Sherlock cocking an eyebrow and I know he’s taken aback, but in approval. “We would appreciate your full cooperation, but if you would rather we ask our questions out here...”  


The first bolt is unlocked and the second follows rather harshly before the door is opened with a jerk to reveal a woman in her mid-twenties, wearing slippers and a bathrobe, her hair short and bleached, her eyes blue and glaring at us from the doorway, one hand on her hip as she looks from me to Sherlock.  


“I have nothing to say to you,” she states. “Please, leave.”  


“Ten minutes,” Sherlock assures.  


“Please, won’t you go away?” she asks and the plea actually reaches her gaze, softening her expression until she looks quite pretty.  


I understand then – we’ll get her into trouble if we go in there.  


“Sherlock,” I begin, but I’m too late as he’s already taken the step over the threshold, gently enough pushing his way past her, but pushing nonetheless.  


I hesitate, but as I can read nothing but defeat on her now I choose to follow him and enter a short hall leading into a larger sitting room. An unmade bed sits in one corner and a sofa stands against one wall. A shelf filled with old records takes up the wall space next to the door and a doorway leads into a small kitchenette. The bathroom is off the hall and that’s it. It’s small, but enough, I would think. I only wonder what her connection actually is with the three shooting victims.  


I bring out my notebook and pencil, flipping it open and beginning to make random notes of what I see. Nothing extraordinary in the furnishing. As for the details: _avid music fan, records, music magazines, musical notes on desk, traveller?, posters old-fashioned travel adverts, reader, collection of books by bed_.  


Sherlock chooses to stand when offered a seat, glancing about the place with something of a small smile on his mouth before he turns his eyes on our unwilling hostess who’s standing insecurely by the desk, watching us warily.  


“You’re a Physics major by the looks of your accumulated literature, but your true passion is music,” he begins, barely pausing as he continues: “Why aren’t you studying it? Possibly because you don’t want to waste the fact that you have a photographic memory on learning notes, more likely you gave up on your true vocation in order to keep your parents happy. Yes, mummy and daddy recognized your cognitive talents at an early age and due to it you’ve always felt estranged from them; coming to England was more of a relief than a sacrifice.  


“Of course, to benefit from their financial support and be able to stay here you would have to study what they had chosen for you. You rarely visit your home country – I would say Belgium rather than France, somewhere near the border, going by your intonations – but you like to travel. You set up your side-business in defiance of your parents and in the hopes of saving enough money off the profits that you might be financially independent from them before leaving college. Did I miss a step?”  


“No,” she answers hesitantly. “How did you...?” Her face settles and she doesn’t seem to expect a reply, instead she asks: “What do you want from me?”  


“Answers, Ms. Pascal,” Sherlock replies. “Three men are dead. Three men linked to you.”  


“What? How?” I interject.  


Sherlock keeps his eyes in hers when he replies:  


“Ms. Pascal is a very lucrative bookmaker.”  


My eyebrows rise at that.  


“I barely know anything,” Ms. Pascal protests.  


“Anything is better than nothing,” Sherlock retorts. “Your first client of the three was Eric Miller?”  


She hesitates a moment longer before she nods.  


“We met in a study group. We talked about many different things. It got late – he walked me home. He was a nice guy. Simple. ...We became good friends.”  


“And the others? Did you know them?”  


“No,” she shakes her head, “Eric brought me their information. It all went through him. This other man wanted it that way.”  


“What other man?” I wonder.  


“I’m not sure. Eric mentioned him a few times, but he wouldn’t tell me his name. Wasn’t allowed to. They met sometime in January,” she replies, thoughtful before she continues: “Eric said this man was going to do great things for him and that he was relieved to have someone who believed in him, someone who pushed him to try new things, take some risks. I told him to be careful. I told him that you don’t just take risks like the ones he was taking, especially where he was taking them, because if you fail it might get you killed. I was going to tell him I couldn’t have him as a client anymore. I didn’t want any part of that world, this was never meant to be a career for me, for God’s sake, and he was bringing in figures that were getting difficult to manage.”  


“How big were they?” Sherlock inquires.  


“Once or twice they were seven digit ones,” she answers. “But those numbers were right at the end, this spring, before he... And I did get this feeling that... there was something more, something...”  


She trails off and Sherlock nods slowly.  


“His alias was Gallagher,” he says, undoubtedly scrolling through the ledger in his head.  


“Yeah,” she smiles, sadly.  


“Where in Brighton did Eric do most of his gambling - before this man came into his life and took him to new heights?” Sherlock inquires.  


“There’s a place on campus, but you won’t get in there,” Ms. Pascal says.  


“And it’s called?” Sherlock asks, his tone deflecting her previous statement in a definitive manner.  


“The Mush Room,” she replies. “It’s held in the old science wing. Room 332. But you won’t get in.”  


Sherlock’s mouth quirks in a small smile at her stubbornness.  


“Did you know Jim Moriarty?” Sherlock asks and I find my eyes widening at his bluntness, even though I ought to be used to it by now.  


Ms. Pascal shakes her head, her stubbornness turning into something hard.  


“But you know the Colonel,” Sherlock says and it’s not a question.  


“Nobody knows him,” the girl states and the sudden fear on her is so palpable it has both of our attention in a heartbeat.  


Sherlock is unimpressed.  


“You’ve done very well,” he then says, his face suddenly devoid of emotion as he observes her. “I’m sure he’ll have nothing to complain about.”  


She stares at him as he turns and heads for the front door. I am trying to make sense of what just happened, but can’t quite wrap my head around it. His voice saying my name prompts me to move in his wake.  


¤

  


You tuck your notebook back into your coat pocket as we leave the inner yard for the street. There’s scarcely any morning traffic this early on a Sunday and the pavement is thankfully free of pedestrians. I’m grateful for the lack of distractions, my mind filled to bursting point with what I’ve just learned and I crave an outlet – conversation being the closest at hand.  


“Breakfast,” I say, leading the way into a small Italian bistro, choosing a table by the window.  


You keep quiet as you read the menu. Silence from you always means you have questions, but you refrain from asking them as you’re hungry and you’re focused on filling your belly, knowing the answers will most likely be offered in due time.  


You order an omelette and coffee and once you’ve taken your first bite you finally say:  


“You don’t honestly think she’s part of the Syndicate, do you?”  


I watch you for another moment before I answer:  


“No, the look on her face told me that much. Moran truly scares her. She’s not part of his network, but she has been approached. Threatened in no subtle way, I’m sure. Whatever information she delegated to us today she knows was safe to give. Meaning what?”  


You blink, narrowing your eyes.  


“What?” you wonder.  


“If Ms. Pascal has been told what to tell us and what not to...”  


“...then her information is only what we’re meant to have,” you fill in, wrinkling your brow in agitation as you add: “Why would Moran want us to have any information at all?”  


“Because he thinks he can treat me the way he treated my brother,” I reply.  


A small smirk spreads on your mouth and you turn your eyes back on your plate as you shake your head.  


“What?” I ask.  


“I just don’t know if it’s a good or a very bad sign that Moran is underestimating you,” you reply, having a sip of your coffee.  


I mirror your smirk, not wanting to admit that I don’t think – have never thought in this case – that Sebastian Moran takes anything lightly, least of all me. It’s not an underestimation but more a mark of his curiosity. He wants to see what I’ll do next, which path I’ll choose; he wants to take part in my journey: he’s studying my methods.  


He’s been studying me ever since I returned to this country. Before that. Ever since he first heard the rumours of a ghost hunting down his best killers-for-hire. He’s filled with anticipation, and it makes me feel all the more unsettled because I – unlike him – have no idea what rules he’s playing by, and the last time I realized the rules were being written as we went along it all ended so very darkly.  


“How the hell did you know she was their bookie?” you ask.  


“It was the only logical conclusion of her narrative,” I reply, reaching out to warm my hands around your coffee cup, growing silent for a while as you eat before I speak up again, saying:  


“Eric Miller, Derren Small, Linus Bracket as well as this elusive fourth, they played illegal games under the radar of any gaming commission or official restricting gaming law – Ms. Pascal kept track of their winnings and losses. We have Miller’s alias – soon enough we’ll have the others’ as well. They may have begun small, but toward the end they didn’t play for scraps, John, they played with and won and lost fortunes. Linus Bracket made good money as a stockbroker – he had a flat in a nice neighbourhood and he drove a new car: he had the means to get his hands on the sums needed to enter these high-end games, but the other two.  


“Well, take Eric Miller: clever kid, good with numbers, formidable at cards, no doubt, he’s gambled online; he’s gotten a reputation; he’s made himself enough money to pay for university and then some, but it’s not enough. What does he do? What can he do? He’s stuck. Until he gets himself a sponsor. Someone who initiates him into this world he didn’t even know existed. He’s riding the wave and thinks nothing can touch him. So when this sponsor approaches him with a scheme that will make them rich beyond imagination...”  


“He takes the bait,” you fill in.  


I nod again.  


“You said someone brought them together. This sponsor – could he be Moran?” you wonder.  


“No,” I reply. “Moran wouldn’t risk stealing from his business partners and he wouldn’t shoot his co-conspirators so openly if he wanted to cover his tracks after a swindle. No.”  


“What do you hope to find at The Mush Room?” you want to know and I raise my shoulders, making you roll your eyes at me.  


You push your empty plate away from you, grabbing the coffee cup from my grasp, giving me a slight look of reproach for monopolizing it and bringing it to your mouth as you observe me. I sit back on my chair, digging my hands into the pockets of my coat, taking my eyes out of yours to look around the small, comfortable room hosting the café.  


Black-and-white photographs have been arranged in a puzzle-pattern on the burgundy walls, as well as framed newspaper clippings featuring the establishment: signalling the pride of the owners, or desperation? Is it the testament to years of success or the fear of being forgotten, of not standing out as much as they would want, of disappearing amongst the Starbucks and the Costas? Not that there are that many of them in Brighton, admittedly, but these aged establishments had better offer wireless internet access or they lose half of their clientele.  


“What was school like for you? Really?” you suddenly wonder, bringing my gaze back in yours.  


You have an earnest enough expression on your face, but I can’t quite process the simple question.  


Really. What was school like for me?  


“Educational,” I reply.  


You won’t accept that, though, leaning forward, placing your elbows on the table as you eye me closely.  


“I’d like to know,” you say. “What was it like?”  


“I don’t imagine it was very different to any other’s perception of what their edification is or should be – there were bad and good teachers, bad and good classmates, I didn’t enjoy any of the homework, but I excelled in the exams.”  


You suddenly smile and I grow a little alarmed at how I’ve clearly not given you a satisfactory answer. I dislike misunderstanding you.  


“That’s not what I meant,” you say.  


“Then be more specific,” I more or less bite back, but you take it in your stride, barely reacting to my impatience as you lean back on your chair again.  


“What was your roommate like?” you wonder.  


“Didn’t have one,” I reply. “My parents got me a single room; they thought it was for the best.”  


You wear another small frown, growing quiet as you study me and I feel my skin beginning to crawl; I’m unused to this and I quickly begin to grow uncomfortable with being on this side of the exchange. I’ve had people try to make sense of me before, only to come out wanting, and though I do feel you have an ability for understanding me, I don’t want you to force yourself into the position of making sense of some part of me that is unclear to you. There seems to be no good reason for it.  


“Did you think it was for the best?” you ask.  


“John, you know I value my privacy.”  


“I do. But did you think it was for the best? You chose to live with me, right?”  


“That was different.”  


“How?”  


“You were a floor above me, I had my own room, you granted me the space I needed to do the things I do – it was different.”  


“So you did think it was for the best?”  


“Yes.”  


“Why?”  


“I can’t see how it matters, John,” I state.  


“Can’t see how it matters,” you parrot almost to yourself, before you continue: “Okay, how’s this: I brought a gun today. I brought a gun because I didn’t know what we were facing. Chances were we were going to get shot at because, unfortunately, that’s not all that uncommon for us. People who risk their lives together, I don’t know – feels like they should at least be able to name where the other was born, if they ever broke a bone, if they wanted to be a fireman or a police officer when they were little. Oh, right, pirate for you, was it?” You pause, eyeing me with something I can’t quite define, possibly amusement as you add: “You think that’s strange, don’t you? Sentimental.”  


I smile a slight smile.  


“I can’t see how it matters,” I restate.  


“It matters to me,” you reply, holding my gaze for such a long time that your point can’t possibly elude me.  
I sigh, relenting.  


“I was born in London. I spent some of my time there when I was young, but most of my early childhood I lived on the family estate in Sussex,” I offer. “At the age of five I was sent off to Eton. I went to Cambridge, where I studied biochemistry and also took courses in a variety of other useful subjects. And I’ve broken nine bones: my left arm falling from a tree when I was four, my right ankle tripping over a dead cat in a dead man’s house when I was fifteen and three ribs and four fingers in situations that you’re familiar enough with that you don’t need me describing them. As for the pirating...”  


You stare at me for another moment before your face lights up from a widening smile and I return it.  


“You done?” I then ask, rising without waiting for a reply.  


¤

  


It’s close to ten-thirty when we trudge across the grass of the campus, kicking up the leaves that are littering it in a thick carpet of shadowed yellow. When we reach the steps of the old stone building – which we’ve been informed previously hosted the science wing – a light rain has begun to fall. We take the steps two at a time and I walk through the door as Sherlock holds it open for me.  


A wide corridor stretches out to right and left. The overhead lights are switched off at this hour of night and the building feels cold and forlorn. I flash back to that first case we had, the cabbie having showed up and taken Sherlock somewhere and when I finally found the buildings I entered the wrong one, running through echoing and blackened corridors in a blind panic, knowing that I had to find him, help him. Even then, even after knowing him for twenty-four hours, I felt protective of him, somehow sensing that he wasn’t protective of himself. How terrifyingly right I was.  


I follow him down the left corridor and we reach a set of stairs, climbing them until we land on the third floor. Here there’s noise to be heard. Muffled voices further down. Sherlock gives me a look and I know what he’s thinking: this won’t be hard. We walk toward the door with the number 332 on it. A young man rises from a chair, looking at us suspiciously.  


“This is invitation only,” he states cockily.  


Sherlock smiles crookedly.  


“Isn’t everything? Tell whoever’s in charge that Sherlock Holmes would like to ask some quick questions, shouldn’t be a bother. If there’s a problem, tell them to Google me.”  


“One moment,” the young man mumbles before disappearing in through the door.  


“Nothing takes one moment,” Sherlock mutters.  


“Google you?” I ask, eyebrows raised.  


“When has anything ever taken one moment – it’s a false statement,” he persists.  


“You’re actually telling them to Google you now?” I ask again, making him cock an eyebrow.  


The young man reappears, leaving the door open for us, his eyes glued to Sherlock’s form as the fabled detective steps past him into the room. I follow, almost patting the young man’s shoulder to break him out of his shock.  


“Mr. Holmes,” another young man – was I ever this young – greets with a smile.  


He’s well-groomed, a head shorter than Sherlock and an inch shorter than me, with something innocent about his striped bow-tie and preppy shirt and knitted vest that makes me think back on what it was like that first semester of university when the world still held some mystery and I was certain I was capable of doing great things. Like saving lives. And I have. I’ve also lost them. And taken them.  


“I’m Gerry,” the second youngster says, reaching out a hand.  


“No, you’re not,” Sherlock disagrees, ignoring the hand.  


“Well, I’m sure you can understand...”  


“We have absolutely no interest in whatever little operation you’ve set up for yourselves here, you want to gamble away your allowance, who are we to judge? I want to know what type of player Mr. Gallagher was.”  


The young man calling himself Gerry looks from Sherlock to me and back to Sherlock, suddenly oozing insecurity before he softly corrects:  


“Ah, it’s just Gallagher.” At Sherlock’s blank face he hesitantly tries to clarify by adding: “ ...Like McG. Or Bjork.”  


“Moving on,” Sherlock interrupts impatiently. “How did he play the game?”  


“He was consistent. Smart. Observant, you know? Master at keeping his poker face. Really good with body language and that whole bit.”  


“Did he take risks?”  


Gerry has to think about it for a moment before he shakes his head.  


“Not really. I mean, he didn’t need to. He was that good. He could tell nine times out of ten if he should fold rather than call. I was relieved when he found greener pastures; he was cleaning us all out.”  


He says it with a smirk, but Sherlock’s not smiling.  


“He’s dead,” Sherlock states, something hard in his voice. “I suggest you all stay where you’re currently grazing or you might end up in a body bag as well.”  


With that he leaves the room. I glance around at the assembled strangers, a handful of guys, three girls, all of them gaping back at me and I turn and once more walk in the wake of my friend. He’s halfway down the stairs when I catch up with him, coat billowing out at the pace he’s keeping, his feet stomping the stone of the steps in clear aggravation and when we reach the first floor he exclaims:  


“ _Morons_.”  


“Well,” I begin.  


“They don’t see any further than that room. At that age I could map the entire world for you on a piece of paper, name the countries, the cities, tell you the distance between Mumbai and Hong Kong and those _morons_ believe they _own_ it. That it’s just out there _waiting_ for them. Greener pastures,” he huffs the last, pushing the entrance door open and leading me straight into a heavy downpour, flipping his collar up as though he barely registers the fact that we’re getting soaked.  


I huddle into my jacket, struggling to keep up with him as he strides toward the large gate.  


“Yes, but they’re just kids,” I try.  


“Age is no excuse,” he barks.  


“Not everyone...” I trail off, not seeing any use in starting an argument.  


“Not everyone what, John?” he asks, stopping. “Not everyone’s brain works the way mine does, is that what you were going to say?”  


“ _No one’s_ brain works the way yours does is what I was going to get at, actually,” I reply tartly.  


“And the world is a worse place for it,” he retorts, turning and continuing out through the gate, onto the pavement.  


I sigh.  


“Sure,” I say to myself as I hurry after him, “if we didn’t have messy things like emotions and confusion and misunderstandings the world would be a better place.” I pause, begrudgingly having to admit: “In some ways.”  


“What?” Sherlock demands as I’ve caught up to him.  


“I’m _agreeing_ with you, will you calm down? I know we didn’t get that much information, but...”  


“Oh, I got plenty,” he deflates my attempt at consoling him before suddenly heading up the well-lit entrance steps of a small hotel.  


“What’re you doing?” I ask. “No,” I then add, stopping at the foot of the steps, looking up at him as he starts through the revolving doors. “We’re going back tonight,” I call after him, my tone as firm as it ever has been. “You know I hate it when you do this, we’re not staying, I don’t care how late it is, I’m taking the bloody train back to the city.”  


¤

  


You’re dripping rainwater onto the light-blue carpet of the elevator as soft music plays from a small speaker. I would think you’d be happy getting out of the weather and into a warm bed for the night, but your face is clouded over with annoyance.  


“You could’ve said,” you reproach.  


“I didn’t know it’d get so late and so... wet,” I assure you.  


“Didn’t bring anything with me,” you complain. “You know I hate it when you do this.”  


“Do what? I _didn’t know_ ,” I say again. “Wasn’t like I _made_ it rain.”  


“Right. I should start carrying around my toothbrush and a pair of clean pants just in case I’m suddenly stranded in a new city,” you grumble.  


“Not a bad idea,” I allow, your sideways glare carrying venom.  


I keep the smirk down as the doors slide open and we step into a dimly lit hallway that smells familiarly of fresh carpet and dust-free surfaces giving the sense of welcome sterility. The room itself is surprisingly spacious with a large canopy bed and white painted antique furniture. A flat-screen TV hangs on one wall and the room is equipped with all the comforts I would expect, which pleases me. The bathroom is clean and bright.  


“Have a shower,” I encourage you. “But hand me one of the robes first,” I add with a trying smile and though it takes a moment you return it.  


You remove your soaked jacket with what I would judge to be gratitude and head into the bathroom, tossing me one of the bathrobes hanging on the door before you close it behind you.  


Five minutes later I have to knock on it as the bellboy has come up to collect our wet clothes. He assures me they’ll be returned from the dry-cleaning I’ve ordered by six am, and I call room-service for some tea and scones to be brought up, knowing you’ll appreciate the gesture even more than the shower.  


Once you emerge you rub your hands at the smell of the freshly baked bread and accept the cup I’m handing you with something close to reverence, sitting down in one of the armchairs by the large windows.  


“Aren’t you having a shower?” you ask when I join you, a cup of my own in hand.  


I shake my head, sipping the hot liquid as you look out at the view of the lit-up pier stretching out into the waves, the small amusement park at the end of it showing no sign of life at this time of year. It looks quite desolate and abandoned.  


“There’s something depressing about a place that’s empty when it’s built to be filled with people,” you mumble quietly, your thoughts clearly running on the same lines as mine and I find myself watching your well-known face as it wears an expression I’ve rarely seen on it before – you look as desolate as that empty place.  


Abandoned.  


“Yes,” I agree, making you turn your head to me.  


Your eyes rest in mine for a breath or two before you focus it on the cup in your hands, having a swallow. Then you turn your attention back at me with a slight wrinkle on your brow as you ask:  


“Why did your parents think it’d be better for you to have a single room at college?”  


“Do you really need me to clarify?” I inquire.  


You smile and I return it.  


“Alright – why did _you_?” you wonder.  


I observe you at that, realizing that this is what you wanted to ask all along and I’m moments away from replying with something quick and dryly witty so as to avoid the question entirely, but surprisingly enough I find myself wanting to tell you. And before I know it, there it is: the truth.  


“Because I knew what it’d be like,” I say slowly, “sharing accommodations with someone who’d grow tired of me in a month and ask to switch rooms; having to go through that for four years – not what I’d call a desirable prospect; after all, who would ever _want_ to live with me?”  


That makes you smile again and there’s warmth there and I have to wonder, quietly, how I ever did manage to keep you when everyone else...  


It feels like old times. Like Baker Street. I’ve thought little of our old rooms, I admit that, but now I can almost smell them, that faint scent of smoke and chemicals that had crept into the wallpaper and was impossible to air out; the feel of the leather cushion of my chair and the sound of you sitting down in your armchair opposite me; the sensation in my fingers and hands as I placed the bow to the strings of the violin.  


“Can’t believe you lost my bow,” I lament, having a sip of my tea.  


You furrow your brow quizzically.  


“Are you trying to be clever?” you wonder, making me smile widely.  


“No, literal,” I reply and it takes another moment before you smirk.  


“I’ll buy you a new one,” you promise. “Sorry. Wasn’t exactly expecting that I’d have to.”  


“No, I suppose you weren’t,” I agree. “John...” Your eyes rest in mine and I can’t quite remember what I was about to ask you, a strange emptiness fills my mind for a moment and I frown lightly to get it away, finally saying: “Did you ever break a bone?”  


You smirk.  


“I’ve been shot – does that count?”  


I smirk as well.  


**September 24th**

  


On the train back to London the next morning, I find myself considering Sherlock’s childhood. For some reason the thought of him as a small boy is difficult for me to grasp. I see a four year old in starched shirts and tiny suits, questioning everything and throwing a temper tantrum if ever questioned himself. The thought makes me smile, but there’s something sad about it, too. Something lonely.  


I’ve never thought of Sherlock as a lonely person before. His solitude always seemed so self-carved and desired that I’ve never once gotten the notion that it could ever have been otherwise, but a child doesn’t have the skill-set, no matter how brilliant the child is, to understand seclusion and choose it for himself. What was his relationship like with his parents? With his brother? How early did the resentment between them begin to edge the crevice separating them? What was really the cause of it?  


And as a younger man, did he never seek anyone’s company? He’s sought mine – I can’t possibly be the first, can I? He must have met someone at college or the years after who took him at face value and found something to appreciate. I suppose Mike Stamford might be one of the few, but then again, Sherlock doesn’t seek him. In fact, Sherlock hardly ever stretches out a hand unless there’s one already stretched out to him and even then he’s most likely going to turn away from it than grasp it. Why is that?  


My head is filled with these annoying musings, my mind bursting with questions that I’m not sure I’ve even wanted to formulate to myself before, knowing that doing so would only make me want to ask him, while being perfectly aware of how Sherlock dislikes these types of conversations. In the first months I spent at Baker Street I once asked him why he was so interested in chemistry and he filled my room with every last book and magazine he had on the subject instead of simply answering what made it interesting to _him_.  


“Sherlock,” I say hesitantly, making him look at me from where he’s seated across from me. But when it comes to him I’m such a coward, and so I ask: “How do we find the fourth?”  


“We use the postcards,” he answers and that’s all I’m getting out of him for the rest of the trip.


	12. Forward/Backward

“There,” Sherlock says, flicking one wrist at the postcards, placed before him on the coffee table, as he rises, allowing me a moment to look over whatever it is he’s referring to. “Well?” he then asks impatiently, stalking the sparse rectangle of floor in front of the table. “Do you see it?”  


I know he must mean the pattern he’s discerned from comparing the ledger to the messages on the postcards, but I can’t make it out. I haven’t been able to make it out for the past two hours of trying and even though a switch must have flipped from dark to light in his head, it’s rather shining its absence in mine. Sherlock notices this from my expression, stomping back up to take the seat next to me, pointing at the screen of his laptop.  


“Assuming these men worked together,” he begins to explain.  


“Which we know they were,” I fill in, and he gives a nod.  


“Would they approach the casino on the same night, looking for its weaknesses, or would they spread their visits out so that their involvement with each other wouldn’t be quite so obvious to those who have as sole job description to watch the guests and notice anything that could be seen as deviant behaviour?”  


“Deviant?” I inquire, but at his cocked eyebrow I let his choice of word slide and instead I offer: “They would split up.”  


He gives another nod, pointing to the postcards and then to the ledger as he continues:  


“Gallagher: three major wins, two minor wins, two major losses, two minor losses and one game where he must have folded. Given that there are two hundred registered members and each of them have a different pattern of wins and losses in relation to Gallagher’s presence – or absence – and comparing these with what we can construe from the postcards messages, especially from those not found in Eric Miller’s room, we are down to a dozen possible matches. Glaringly obvious.”  


“Mh,” I say, “glaringly.”  


He doesn’t notice my sarcasm, instead he rises and reaches for his coat.  


“Where are you-…?”  


“Mycroft.”  


“Well, am I-…?”  


“Yes.”  


He’s by the door, opening it with one of those simple movements that speak of an innate sense of control over his body. I am captivated by it for a brief moment, rather staring at him where he’s clearly now waiting for me. His grace has never felt or even seemed contrived, but as an aesthetic part of his person that is as natural as his reliance on his five senses. I find myself again wondering what shaped him into the person he’s become. Quickly disposing of these thoughts, however, I feel his eyes on me as I get my jacket and, once I’m through it, he closes the door behind us.  


¤

  


“Oh, come on – quit stalling. You’ve researched every last face you’ve seen enter that building. I know you must have a list of names somewhere,” I state impatiently, half an hour later.  


“You don’t have clearance,” Mycroft protests.  


“Can we skip the tedious custom of you telling me something is impossible when clearly you’re going to accommodate me?” I retort.  


His eyes are flint – he’s not amused this time: I’ve stormed his stronghold and am now listing my demands and he dislikes feeling besieged more than anything else. He’s so much like our father sometimes I wonder if he realizes it himself. Of course, he always did aspire to be and so it must only please him if he does.  


I’ve always found it mildly depressing that he should strive to emulate someone who never sought to be a role model and who, if he were still alive, would probably scoff at the effort; our father believed in being one’s own man above everything else and lived by the conviction that our actions dictate our person. He was always to the point, always certain his way was the right way, the only way. I suppose this is why I take no subtle pleasure in proving my brother wrong.  


“I’ve already been down this route, Sherlock,” Mycroft tries a different tack. “There’s nothing for you at the end of it. Not one of the members knows anything. Yes, we’ve questioned a few of them – discreetly.” I exchange a quick glance with you, widening my eyes, making you smirk. Mycroft tilts his head half a centimetre in a rather quizzical manner and I can’t quite tell if it’s to do with our exchange or his finishing with: “The casino is a legitimate business, you understand?”  


“I’m not going to question a judge or a member of parliament or whoever else you’ve collected for your case file,” I retort, unable to resist underlining: “I’m well aware that they’re not the cogs that make this machinery turn, brother dear. I need these twelve names so that I can exclude those that are of no importance.”  


Mycroft holds my gaze, observing me for a long beat; he must, in those few moments he always seems to take to brace himself for the oncoming relenting of his protestations, try to perversely tell himself that he’s actually getting what he wants out of me, and not the other way around. I can see, in the way his pupils always turn into pinpoints right before he consents to whatever it is I’m asking of him, that he never actually manages to convince himself entirely.  


He reaches out a hand and picks up the receiver of his phone, speaking instructions to his assistant before he hangs up. I lift one corner of my mouth in a half-smile of thanks.  


“I have to say I’m impressed,” he admits, making me raise my eyebrows, but he turns his gaze in yours as he continues: “When I first met you, Dr. Watson, I was unsure of what to make of you. Were you a soldier first and foremost, or a healer? What was the use my brother saw in you? What position could you possibly represent that he couldn’t sufficiently fill himself?”  


“Your point?” you bite off, the disapproval wafting off of you like a heat wave: you have no interest in what my brother has to say.  


Mycroft smiles his laziest smile, observing you before shifting his eyes in mine. I furrow my brow at his inquisitive attention and am about to part my lips in order to break it when the door opens and his assistant delivers the case file. Mycroft directs his gaze on it instead, beginning to leaf through sheets of paper, taking his time and I leave him to it with a slight roll of my eyes. I glance over at you and suddenly I’m overcome with a sense of gratitude, feeling truly glad that you’re here. A week ago and you wouldn’t have been. It feels like I’ve been back longer than six days. It feels as though I never left.  


Perhaps I never really did.  


This thought makes me look away from you, back at my brother, my focus returning to what is most probably before us now.  


Mycroft finally places five sheets of paper next to one another at the edge of his desk, having marked twelve names with neon orange which somehow annoys me: it feels like a warning not to even glance at any of the other names, which of course I do in pure spite of it. All my disobedience really tells me is that the casino caters straight to the massively rich and overly powerful – something I already knew.  


You write the highlighted names down in your notebook and it makes Mycroft smirk in an almost undetectable way, but it reaches his eyes and betrays him. For some reason it makes me furious that your habits would give him any source of mirth and I fight the urge to slam my hand down right in front of his annoying face if so only to bring about a different expression.  


“How’s the leak?” I ask instead, getting him to look at me. “Fixed?”  


“Under control,” Mycroft acquiesces with a slight nod, but now there’s something else in his eyes, which makes me feel uneasy as it’s something wondering, almost concerned – whenever he gets that look I know he’s beginning to plot an invasion into my privacy by whatever means available and I dislike that big brother behaviour more than anything else about him.  


You finish, Mycroft scoops the sheets into a pile and I turn without another word, feeling some small satisfaction at being able to at least be as discourteous to him as I feel he’s being to you. He has no reason to be and I have no time to be perplexed about it.  


As we head for the elevator I say:  


“Two of those names belong to highly ranked police officials; one of them to a defence attorney; one to a woman connected to the tax department; two are names of men already dead and then there are six names left.”  


“So one of those six?” you say slowly with a lift of one eyebrow and I give a nod.  


One of those six.  


¤

  


Scotland Yard is teeming with activity when we arrive on the floor of the homicide division. It hasn’t changed, I conclude: same blue-gray walls, same dark gray carpet, same crowded together desks and the same faces. My eyes catch on Sally Donovan just as she turns her head to us and I hold her gaze for a moment, her eyes widening slightly before I release her.  


The turned heads and sudden murmured comments rolls off of Sherlock as though he doesn’t notice them and he heads straight for Lestrade’s closed door and knocking twice before proceeding through it without barely so much as a pause. Stopping before Lestrade’s desk he then dually ignores the presence of Anderson and reaches out a hand to me. For a moment I don’t know what he wants, but then the beckoning gesture makes me realize he wants my notebook. I hand it to him and he flips it demonstratively open, slamming it down in front of a frowning Lestrade and pointing at the names.  


“I need background checks and addresses for these six men,” he states.  


I’ve compulsively crossed out the names of no consequence, wanting every piece of information I put down to be accurate and up to date.  


“Why?” Anderson interjects and Sherlock shoots him an inconsequential glance before looking back at Lestrade, who sighs.  


“Why?” Lestrade repeats Anderson’s question.  


“Because if you don’t give them to me I’ll have to get them elsewhere, and I know you’d rather I include you,” Sherlock replies without hesitation.  


“Where the hell have you been?” Anderson questions, hands on hips, his narrow face pinched into an expression of disliking wonderment. “No, sir,” he then adds as Lestrade draws a breath, “I’d really like to know where the hell he’s been. And what he’s done that makes him think he can come back like his previous cases weren’t put through every conceivable inspection to make certain they weren’t all one great big hoax.”  


I can’t help but take a step forward at the outrageousness of this confrontation, but Sherlock shoots me a look not to bother.  


“Have you been reading the dictionary again?” he instead asks. “I think I detected a few new words there, Anderson – good for you.”  


“Alright,” Lestrade stops the exchange, rising from his chair with a warning look at Anderson. “Every case put through inspection proved legitimate so that’s all that needs to be said about that and he’s helping, Anderson, the same way he has always helped us so if you want to stand in the way of that I’ll have to ask you to step aside.”  


Anderson’s eyebrows shoot high.  


I can tell Sherlock’s relaxing by the way his posture changes and I have to smirk. Anderson notices and two small blotches of read appear on his cheeks before he huffs and turns, leaving the room. I can see through the window that Sally meets him outside and they have a brief exchange, Sally’s gaze darting uncertainly toward Sherlock’s figure while Anderson is clearly still rattled by his boss’ ultimatum. Soon they disappear side by side out of sight.  


I direct my interest back at Greg; thinking I haven’t ever fully appreciated the character of the man until this moment, not even when his public denouncement of all allegations against Sherlock helped clear his name. I grant Greg a rueful smile and he returns it briefly before he grabs the notebook from his desk, asks us to wait, and goes to see about obtaining the sought information himself.  


¤

  


Audrey is sitting on a bench in Primrose Hill, rising as I hurry down the path towards her, a soft smile spreading on her mouth as I stop before her and claim a kiss.  


“I was beginning to think you weren’t going to show,” she says, hooking her arm in mine as we head toward the short strip of neighbourhood Main Street at the end of Regent’s Park Road and the restaurant I’ve chosen for our late lunch.  
“Sorry, we were at the Yard,” I reply, about to go into a rant regarding how some people behave around Sherlock and I when I catch the look on her face and it stops me. “What?” I ask.  


“It’s just... I can’t imagine what a different... What it’s like to go to ‘the Yard’, and not to report a crime, but to be part of solving one. You _know_ people at Scotland Yard, John,” she smiles again, shaking her head.  


I smile as well, though a little bashfully.  


“It’s really nothing,” I tell her, holding the door of the small restaurant open for her, getting a sudden flash of Sherlock doing the same for me on more occasions than I can even remember, letting it go in the next moment as I add: “Sometimes we do go there to report a crime, too, you know.”  


“No, I didn’t know that,” she answers simply, taking one of the chairs at a table for two, accepting the menu from our waiter, but putting it down on her plate as she fixes me with her pretty, blue eyes. “So, how’s it going? How was Brighton?”  


“Fine,” I reply. “Good, I think. Well, as far as I could tell. Hadn’t exactly planned to stay the night, but the hotel was nice, which was good. At least he always makes sure of that,” I mutter the last, having a sip of my water before I even notice the look on her face.  


Her brow has knitted and she looks so earnestly thoughtful that I’m ready to ask her if she even heard a word I just said, but then she seems to come out of it and picks up the menu without further comment. Her silence makes me feel uncomfortable in a way her expression didn’t and it leads me to say, rather tryingly:  


“I’m sorry. That I haven’t been around.”  


“It’s not that I don’t-...” she answers immediately, putting the menu down, but looking suddenly self-conscious, as though she’s spoken too hastily. She seems to grow hesitant as she continues: “It’s not that I don’t understand. I think I do. I’d like to think so, anyway. It’s just that I miss you. I’m used to having you next to me when I fall asleep and it’s just... Waking up alone feels wrong now, you know?”  


I wish I could nod my agreement, no matter how deep the lie runs. I wish I could reach over and take her hand, link our fingers together the way I used to do when we just started dating, and reassure her that nothing has changed. But as she speaks the words it dawns on me that I’ve barely thought of her over the days that have passed and telling her that I am missing her, too, it feels like such a direct violation of everything we’ve been to each other up until now – honest and healthy in our view of each other – that I simply can’t do it, not even to spare her feelings.  


Instead I stare at her for the longest moment and the silence expands into a bubble so large I suddenly grow afraid of breaking it: there’s no telling what damage it might cause once it’s cracked open.  


When I do speak I say the first thing that comes into my mind and, by the emotions that flash over her face, the worst thing I could have possibly offered as a response:  


“I’d think you’d be _glad_ to be rid of me when we’re always complaining about how your bed is too small.”  


I say it lightly, but every word is as big as a boulder, stacking themselves between us; I swear, I can practically see them where they create a sudden, thick wall of separate views on our relationship, our friendly banter about how to fit a bigger bed into her tiny bedroom suddenly getting a completely different undercurrent and I can see how hurt she is.  


I want to apologize, but it’s too late. The sentiment is out there. Sitting there, between us. No matter how false and misleading it is.  


Then she smiles and nods a little.  


“You’re right,” she says. “I should be rejoicing, shouldn’t I? Got the whole mattress to myself again.”  


I smile weakly back, hoping the soft tone in her voice shouldn’t be as alarming as I find it. Hoping that she will have the strength to tear the wall down and not accept it. It’s nothing. It’s nothing more than an accidental slip of tongue, a stupid choice of words, not even true. She shouldn’t be rejoicing: I’m glad she feels like her bed is empty without me, I want that space. That space is mine. I’m not going anywhere.  


“Did you book the bed and breakfast?” she then asks me, and I don’t believe I’ve ever felt myself pale before, but I’m certain my face goes white with shame at the simple question.  


“Oh, God,” I say. ”I’m so sorry. I completely... forgot.”  


I can’t go on. I feel so stupid and callous and selfish. She doesn’t look surprised, however. She looks accepting, and it’s worse than if she’d been angry. Her anticipation of this scenario makes me feel smaller and more idiotic than anything else. Going away for a weekend was my idea – something nice to celebrate our anniversary – and here I’ve gotten so caught up in old patterns with Sherlock that I haven’t even paused to consider the woman with whom I’ve formed a new pattern for nearly a whole year.  


Suddenly she looks over my shoulder at something, putting the menu down again with a quiet:  


“Fantastic.”  


“John,” Sherlock’s voice says and I physically jerk a little with surprise, turning my head to him. “Mind if I take a seat?” he adds to Audrey, not waiting for a reply as he grabs the back of a chair and swivels it to the side of our table, sitting down.  


“Sherlock, how did you...? Never mind,” I shake my head, offering Audrey an apologetic look.  


She lifts her shoulders in a shrug.  


“We have direction,” Sherlock informs.  


“I’m in the middle of lunch. I’ll meet you in an hour-...”  


“We’re about to save a life, John. We’re all about the business of saving lives,” he adds the last for Audrey’s benefit, though I don’t think even she can avoid the mocking tone in his voice and I wonder if he’s deliberately trying to get a rise out of me. “Well, aren’t we? Doctor?” he adds, provocatively enough, raising his eyebrows. “Train leaves in forty minutes. Just enough time for you to get pants and toothbrush,” he adds, at which Audrey’s eyes round with wonderment.  


I try to smile it away as Sherlock gets to his feet and heads for the door.  


“He does that a lot, doesn’t he?” Audrey wonders; gaze on Sherlock’s back as he exits the restaurant.  


“What?” I return, thoroughly unsure of how to ask her to excuse me without it feeling as though I’m trampling all over her.  


“Expect you to follow,” Audrey clarifies and I meet her gaze, seeing something not far from pity there.  


“Yes,” I agree, rising and giving her cheek a peck as I finish: “He does. I’m sorry, I...”  


She grants me a slight smile and I try to ignore how I’ve spent the whole of our thirty-five minutes together apologizing.  


But she doesn’t understand. She doesn’t know him. She can’t know what it means to be the one he confides in. Well, sometimes confides in. If there’s pity on her part, then it’s there for the part of me that feels awe for what he can do, what he can piece together simply by power of observation, and how that part of me can’t help but want to see what he might do next. If she could know the rest of it, that pity would fall away.  


And I am not blindly walking in his footsteps, no matter what it may look like. When I join him outside I can hardly contain my aggravation with him.  


“Well, that was just perfect timing.”  


“Really?” he cocks an eyebrow as we head down the street toward the house hosting his room.  


“No, not _really_ ,” I snap. “Can you _ever_ not...?” I begin, unable to find the proper phrasing for my frustration and finally giving it up with a huff, digging my hands into the pockets of my jacket.  


They are narrowly sewn, making me have to hunch my shoulders; this only serves to make me feel like a proper idiot, but I refuse to remove my hands, as though changing stance will give him some unknown power over me.  


“I was in the middle of something,” I finally try it again, hearing the sulkiness in my voice.  


“No, you were at the beginning of something,” he corrects. “As far as I could tell neither of you had even ordered yet.”  


I stop, yanking my hands loose and wondering why it is I am so angry with him for coming to get me. I would have been just as irritated if he’d gone on his own. Actually, I would have been furious. Perhaps it’s that look on Audrey’s face that’s haunting me: the expectation that I wouldn’t be able to sit down with her for a few hours and share a meal. For goodness sakes, the last time I did, Sherlock was there, too.  


He notices I’m not beside him anymore and stops a little ways down the pavement, turning partially in order to look at me.  


“What’s wrong?” he asks in such an earnest way that I somehow begin to feel foolish.  


I suppose I simply can’t help this sudden feeling of being stuck, and I’m beginning to worry about how exactly I’m going to break free of it.  


“Where are we going?” I therefore say, catching up to him.  


“Ipswich,” he replies.  


¤

  


“Well?” you ask once we’ve found our seats on the train. “Are you going to tell me now or do I have to wait until we’re actually there?” you add off my expression.  


I can’t quite hold back the smile at your impatience – your need to be filled in has always had that effect and it’s never been because it gives me proper reason to show off, but rather I’ve enjoyed your want, your need for inclusion.  


You seeking knowledge from me is more a show of some form of admiration than a grovelling admission of your own short-comings; after all, your questions have always helped sharpen my own perception of what we’re faced with and your listening to my thought process has eased it along in such a way that I can’t seem to find the same pace without voicing it to you.  


“We’re not tagged or bugged in any way, either of us – I had Mycroft do a security scan. Well, his elevator actually did the scanning, but even so,” I state, your eyes unblinking and before you can ask I elaborate: “There was a possibility. I wasn’t sure how Moran operates. Clearly he trusts eyes on more than he trusts gadgets.”  


“’Eyes on’. Meaning we’re being followed,” you clarify. I can see the surprise on your face. You didn’t suspect it, then. “You mean we’re being watched at all times, is that what you mean?”  


“I’ve no proof,” I shrug.  


Suddenly your eyes widen.  


“Audrey,” you say, about to continue when I calm you with:  


“Mycroft’s people will make sure she’s safe. She’ll be fine.”  


“So, this trip. Well, I assume we’re taking it because, what, you’ve figured out where the person we’re looking for is? So what the hell are we doing going there if we’re being followed?” you demand edgily.  


I observe you in silence, wondering if you had to voice that question more for your own benefit of wrapping your head around it, or if you’ve actually lost all your faith in my abilities; in how I choose to do things; in my person. The thought smarts, but I can’t get rid of it. Only you can.  


You draw a breath, keeping your eyes in mine until finally you say:  


“Right, then – what’s the plan?”  


I have to smirk.  


“We go to Ipswich.”  


“Fine.”  


“Then Cambridge. Gloucester. A few stops in between. Somehow we’ll end up in Bristol.”  


“Bristol?”  


“Mh. Just outside, small neighbourhood, good place to disappear. And we’ll even get to go part of the way by car,” I share brightly.  


You’re completely unimpressed.  


“Cat and mouse? That’s the plan?” you ask, your tone merely making me smirk again.  


“Actually,” I then say, getting to my feet, turning to you with a look that tells you to follow and you grab your bag, eyebrows rising questioningly.  


I lead the way toward the door between the train cars, proceeding through it, keeping up the pace through two more cars without noticing anyone on our tail, but feeling certain that they’re there, not far behind. We reach the fourth car and I spot the door to a lavatory. Checking its vacancy as I approach I find it’s empty and without further ado I open the door with a quick movement as I turn to you and push you inside.  


“Wha-...?” you have time to say before I step in after you, pulling the door closed, leaving it unlatched.  


I place a gloved finger to my lips and we keep quiet.  


I can tell you’re growing fidgety, but I’m unsure of whether you dislike the smallness of the space or the uncertainty of our situation. You stare at a fixed point somewhere to my left and seem to focus on avoiding the toilet seat as best you can, even when the train’s movements slams you into the wall and then into my chest. I help you regain your balance and your glance is both exasperated with me for putting you in this position, and appreciative: a combined expression you’ve mastered to perfection.  


Finally I reach for the door handle and you look to the ceiling in gratitude as I step outside, leading the way back to our car. I make note of which seats are empty that before hosted a passenger as we go through, coming to the conclusion that a man reading the newspaper is our suspect: well-polished shoes with jeans; an assortment of rings on his right hand; hair combed to the right while he’s crossed his legs right-over-left.  


How disappointing – I had expected this to be difficult.  


We get off in Ipswich and jump on the next waiting train across the platform. The man with the newspaper doesn’t appear and that makes my interest perk up again. A switch and someone else is following us to Gloucester. Good – this might still prove a bit of fun.  


¤

  


When we find ourselves in our own compartment on the stretch between Gloucester and some country village I’ve never heard of, I take the opportunity to ask Sherlock about how exactly he got hold of this direction we’re on. He quickly relates to me the story of how he went to the apartment of the only name of the six men who Lestrade got background information on that actually fit the profile. Walter Williams: thirty-four; single; risk-taker – his hobby, apparently, is jumping out of tall structures – and he’s employed by British Airways. Ground personnel, but still.  


“You should’ve told me,” I reproach and Sherlock lifts one eyebrow quizzically. “That you were going to break into this stranger’s flat, you should’ve told me,” I underline.  


“You saw me getting the information, what did you think I was going to do?” he retorts, and of course he’s right. “Besides, you said you had to go to lunch. In fact, your exact words were ‘Sherlock, I have to go to lunch’,” he dismisses me. “And there wasn’t much breaking needed.”  


“Sorry?”  


“Key was under the doormat,” he practically grumbles, most probably upset that he didn’t have to climb in a death-defying act to shimmy in through the third story window. “I wonder at that custom, really,” he goes on, “whoever didn’t hide their key under the doormat or over the door or under that oddly shaped rock on their front step? Why not simply _hang_ the key on a hook by the door for all the good it does?”  


“Well, we all can’t be as clever as you,” I say in mock-earnestness, but he barely seems to hear me.  


“He doesn’t have any books,” he muses. “There is an extensive collection of DVDs. And a wall filled with plane tickets. He is dedicated to his work. The flat was large. Well-furnished. As much as he enjoys dreaming of getting away, the fact is that he’s built a life. A good life. Packing a bag and going into hiding wasn’t a simple decision. He left London knowing there’s a possibility he won’t ever get to come back.”  


“And went where?” I wonder.  


“Somewhere no one would ever associate with him.”  


“Except you.”  


He gives me a pleased smirk and I take it in before I say:  


“This is a man’s life on the line, Sherlock.”  


“Yes,” he says slowly, almost thoughtfully, but the word is also so ambiguous in how he more or less exhales it that I’m unsure of his actually using it because he understands what I’m getting at.  


“So I hope you’re taking this seriously,” I therefore add, thinking of his off-handed comments to Audrey about saving lives.  


He gives me an odd look before he retorts:  


“Have I ever given you the impression that I don’t take what I do seriously?”  


“No,” I reply, this time truly honest. “But you’ve admitted yourself that you have a tendency to let these things run away with you. I just mean-...”  


“I know what you mean,” he interrupts me, taking his eyes out of mine again. For a moment there’s a pained expression on his face before he draws a quick breath and it’s gone. “I’ll behave,” he adds with a small smile before he leans his head back and closes his eyes.  


I know he won’t sleep, but I leave him alone, sinking back in my own seat and looking out the large window at the darkened landscape outside. It’s close to eight. In another few hours we’ll have reached our goal and at our last stop Sherlock is certain that he managed to shake the man shadowing us. Of course, how can we be sure? I didn’t even know I was being followed.  


The thought makes me feel uneasy and for the first time since Sherlock told me about Moran, I sense the reality of the threat we’re under. In a way it’s even worse than Moriarty because he may have been volatile and unpredictable, but at least he enjoyed making contact, giving us some sort of warning that he was there, wanting us to never forget it. Moran is simply waiting, patiently, and watching.


	13. Walter Williams

The cottage is small, standing in a row of similar cottages along a country lane two miles south of Bristol. I reach over and shake you awake – you’ve been asleep for the past ten minutes of driving, dozing off with your head lolling to one side, looking thoroughly uncomfortable. You always could sleep anywhere. I imagine it comes from spending all that time in the military. I have trouble sleeping in my own bed; I can hardly imagine what it would be like lying on the ground rolled up in nothing but a sleeping bag.  


You stretch and yawn as you get out, then look at the cottage with a slight frown.  


“Is this it?” you ask as though you expected a fortress and feel robbed of the payoff of all these hours of travelling.  


I neglect to reply, merely smile briefly as I lock the car. We head up to a small, weather-worn wooden gate and I open it to lead the way onto a short, gravelled path taking us to the front door.  


I assume you’ve spotted the carved sign hanging beside the gate stating ‘Furniture By Order’ because you prompt:  


“And exactly why are we here?”  


“Because,” I reply, pushing the doorbell, “Walter Williams ordered his coffee table, dresser and bed from this carpenter. You don’t go to that kind of trouble if it’s not someone you already know, not when you’re a hundred miles off.”  


You make a face as though you think I’m bordering on barmy, but I’ve seen that face too many times to actually make any real note of it. The door is opened by a man in his mid-thirties wearing a chequered apron and a quizzical expression.  


“Mr. Rodney Acres?” I ask, forcing down my impatience as he’s blocking our way. “My name is Sherlock Holmes and this is my colleague John Watson. May we come in? We’ve come on rather urgent business, we can’t very well discuss it out here – you understand.”  


“Well...”  


“Thank you,” I say, reaching the end of my already stretched tolerance of congeniality, stepping past him into a well-lit hallway.  


A set of stairs leads up to the second floor, the kitchen is to the left and a sitting room opens up to our right with high, French windows overlooking a small garden, lit up by a string of garden lights along a brick wall. Beyond the wall lies nothing but the shadowed countryside. No lights from neighbouring houses, no traffic to cut through the blackness. Isolation.  


The house is well-kept, homely, and suddenly I feel an acute longing for our old rooms, but also for the tenacity of London that they became the heart of, for sound and lights and life. This house feels like the opposite, somehow vulnerable for all the pains it has taken not to stand out, to be one amongst a row of others overlooking pastures and fields and pretending that the big, bad world isn’t actually reflected in that picture perfect view; that creatures don’t hunt each other in the night just beyond the garden wall.  


I turn my head to Walter Williams, seated by the small, round kitchen table, wearing a T-shirt and sweats, no shoes, his hair still wet from a recent shower, about ready to head to bed, by the looks of him. He also appears rather taken aback at our intrusion, set to leap up if we so much as approach him, and so I make no move to do so, still positioned in the hallway.  


“Mr. Williams,” I say and he rises. “No need for that,” I calm him. “We have some questions.”  


“How did you find me?” he demands, not exactly relaxing. “What do you want from me?”  


“Your help – to catch the man who shot your friends,” I reply and at that I finally get the reaction I’ve been wanting as he tentatively sits back down, staring at me. “And we found you courtesy of this,” I add with a quick tap on the chest of drawers standing just inside the kitchen door.  


¤

  


“I met Eric on a camping trip,” Walter says ten minutes later, once we’ve all congregated in the sitting room and Rodney has brought in a fresh pot of tea.  


Sherlock and I are both seated in an armchair each, while Walter and Rodney occupy the sofa. A fire is lit in the fireplace and the room is warm and comfortable. For some reason it reminds me of Baker Street and, as I’ve found myself doing on more than one occasion since I left the flat behind, I feel how much I miss it. Even that stupid smiley face on the wall.  


“Eric was nice enough,” Walter continues, snapping me back into the present. “Kept his head down, never wanted any trouble. But at that table, man... He had gut, yeah? He followed it. Never hesitated. He was the best of us. Brought in the most money. Taught us all a few new tricks.”  


His smile fades and he accepts the mug from Rodney, putting two cubes of sugar in and stirring it absentmindedly, lost in thought for another few moments before he draws a breath and looks up at us.  


“When Linus got shot... I thought it had to do with something else. I didn’t _get_ it, yeah? Not even then. That we’d gotten ourselves in way too deep. But we didn’t know. Sure, we knew the casino – that it was run by powerful people, but it was legit, yeah? Our contact – Duprée – he didn’t give us fair warning either. Bloody git. Guess we should’ve asked around, but we didn’t have any bloody reason not to trust him. We trusted his plan, yeah? We didn’t see the bigger picture. Not ‘til it was too late, anyway.”  


He drinks his tea in four swallows and puts the mug down on the coffee table between us.  


“These places usually don’t like it when customers try to cheat the house,” I offer, but Walter’s brow creases into a frown.  


“Is that what you think we were doing? Well, why wouldn’t you?” he says and I glance at Sherlock, who keeps his eyes focused squarely on Walter’s face, but I perceive a shift, a peaking interest in his light-blue eyes. “We weren’t trying to cheat the house – the house was bleeding well cheating us. And we got the proof of it, too. But then Duprée decides instead of going to the gaming commission he’s going to blackmail the bloody owners of the bloody casino. Anonymously, but for Christ’s sakes. I thought he was crazy...”  


He trails off.  


“But the prospect of all that money was too tantalizing to pass on,” Sherlock finishes the sentence for him.  


My friend’s gaze shows how complete his focus now is on the man before him. Something new has been thrown at him, something I can see Sherlock hadn’t anticipated in the least, and whenever that kind of new is presented while in the middle of a case it shifts him into a new gear. That shift is visible on his face now, in his stance, taut and unmoving as he waits for Walter’s response. It comes in the form of a few nods before Walter shakes his head, raking his fingers through his dark-red curls as he looks up at us again, stating:  


“If I’d had any idea what would happen, what we were messing with, I would’ve bleeding well left it alone, wouldn’t I?”  


“Naturally,” Sherlock agrees; his face still expressionless as he eyes the other man, calculating every facial movement and phrasing of his body language.  


I suddenly envy him. He knows more about the truth behind Walter Williams’ words by one cumulative observation of his dress, mannerisms and speech patterns than I ever could find out if I so spent twenty years actually living with the man. It makes me wonder, suddenly, exactly what truths Sherlock knows about me. Granted, he uses his powers to put together a profile of a person, not to read their mind: he’s never been very good at the emotional aspects of an individual. For some reason that thought relaxes me.  


“It was a clever use of postcards,” Sherlock now offers. “Took me a while to find the pattern.”  


Walter smiles then.  


“Yeah, the postcards were my idea, but that code pattern, that was all Derren. He had a thing for code breaking. He could’ve worked for the government, yeah? He was a bloody genius at seeing patterns. It’s what made him so deadly at cards.”  


“He counted?” I ask, slightly surprised, though perhaps I shouldn’t be.  


“That’s partially how we got the proof that the casino was cheating. Using loaded decks and all that. Not that it was any hard evidence, but. And then there was the money count: way too much bloody money in their vaults. Whenever they lost really big – like to us a few times – they made that money back threefold over the following few days. Every time. They had so many people playing with bloody enormous sums of money, yeah, that the tally never made anyone else suspicious. Never thought twice about how many times they won or lost. Guess that was the whole idea of the place anyway – make people feel completely safe, isolated, yeah? Like nothing could touch them.”  


“And your specialty?” Sherlock inquires. “Eric Miller could read people; Derren Small could read cards; Linus Bracket was good under pressure.”  


“And I was the one who didn’t mind taking risks,” Walter shrugs. “I’d be the wildcard, someone that didn’t really have a playing pattern. Throw the ones actually looking for those sorts of things off our scent.”  


“There was no Duprée in the ledger,” Sherlock says and I can tell he’s about to continue that sentence with a stream of consciousness – he’s already worked it out for himself who Duprée is – but he’s interrupted by the sound of glass cracking and the thump of metal hitting flesh as a bullet tears through the side of Walter’s head, blood spattering across the table as the bullet continues on its trajectory and buries itself in the upholstery of Sherlock’s armchair, an inch to the side of his left shoulder.  


I move without thinking, throwing myself over the armrest of my own chair, knocking him off his seat and onto the floor where he immediately starts yelling at me to get off of him.  


Rodney is scrambling backwards from the body of Walter, which is still sitting up on the sofa though half its head is blown away. The scent of something metallic is in the air, mixing with that of warm blood and I have a memory of a ditch in Afghanistan, people screaming around me, at me, for me, and the sound of guns popping hollowly, like children lighting firecrackers. All I can think is Sherlock mustn’t move before I can close those drapes. He mustn’t move.  


“Stay down,” I yell back at him, getting to my feet and ducking down I cross to the French windows, tugging the drapes closed with hurried movements.  


Sherlock’s on his feet and moving to the door when I turn around and I almost want to kill him myself when he disappears out of sight. He must understand there’s no point giving chase – from what I’ve heard from his own mouth Moran is too far away to catch up to.  


I can hardly believe what just happened. The look on Sherlock’s face told me he had absolutely no inkling that we had been followed here. The possibility hadn’t even entered his head and this thought unsettles me, but there’s no point in examining it now.  


I’m at Walter’s side, but I don’t have to check for a pulse to know that he died on impact. Instead I try to calm Rodney, who is already showing clear signs of shock. I grab a blanket folded over the back of a nearby chair and wrap it around his shoulders before I get my mobile out, calling the police as Sherlock re-enters, out of breath and wild-eyed. He takes in the body of Walter Williams with the back of his hand pressed against his mouth before he turns away and I can’t tell if it’s in disgust with the scene and what it stands for or with himself.  


He moves over to the armchair and with nimble fingers he examines the hole of the bullet that could very well have hit him, bringing his fingertips to his nose and smelling them, narrowing his eyes.  


“Brilliant,” he whispers under his breath, turning his eyes in mine with a desolate expression, one that I’ve never seen on him in connection to a discovery.  


It causes me to become worried. Failure always hits him hard, but this – this is something more. I can see it on his face.  


He brings out his mobile and it can only have taken one signal for Mycroft to pick up because seconds later Sherlock is yelling out his demand.  


“We need transportation. _Now_.”  


**September 25th**

  


The hour-long helicopter ride back to London is noisy and horribly slow. I’ve told Mycroft to collect his team and go to the casino; I’ve told him what he can most likely expect once they get there, though I hope I’m wrong. For once I hope I’m wrong.  


It’s not the lingering sensation of that bullet pushing through the velveteen cover and rough upholstery of the armchair that has me rattled, nor the nearly imperceptible impact of its connecting with the wooden frame inside of it; what has me rattled is instead the fact that I have been played like a fiddle. And I did not see this coming. I should’ve seen it. A mile away.  


_That’s your weakness. You always want everything to be clever_.  


So many bread crumbs placed in one beautifully simplistic pattern leading me directly here. A work of art and, as such, I can appreciate it. Even in my state of mind I have to appreciate it.  


The shootings I took to be mere warnings, now looked at in a different light also have the distinct characteristics of bait: a disappearing bullet, a string of unrelated victims, unresolved by the police.  


Moran left flowers on Eric Miller’s grave. The day I went to see you at the cemetery I wanted to check if there would be some kind of message, some sign of a challenge from this elusive opponent, and I had my suspicions confirmed. It was a small hand-bouquet of forget-me-nots with a white ribbon carrying the words: _Never forgotten. SM._ He knew I wouldn’t be able to take this as anything other than a statement from him to me that, again, the game was on, and I swallowed it without a second’s pause.  


Once I stepped out of the shadows and declared myself to the world I knew I was being followed. At three occasions I even spotted the different people assigned to have me under constant surveillance and I now know why: it wasn’t merely to keep track of me, but to relax me to the idea. Lull me into a false sense of control in my awareness of their presence so that, when the time came to shake them, I wouldn’t consider that there might be more than one pair of eyes watching me.  


This has all been a cat-and-mouse game designed to focus me entirely on the belief that it’s been personal, that his sole focus has been me. And how easily he managed it, from the subtle way in which he let me investigate one of the jewels of the Syndicate’s business fronts to his showing off with having gotten to Ms. Pascal before us. All of it baiting my ego; steering my thoughts completely away from the obvious second side to the shiny coin he was holding up for me; the side that would’ve warned me that perhaps his design was not to study me, but in actuality was him in honest need of my services.  


I sensed there was something more, I knew Moran was not to be underestimated, but he managed what he set out to do, and muddled his reasons so completely, by pointing me toward my past and my eagerness to solve the puzzle his former associate laid out for me, that I with ease discarded the already fleeting thought that he might be using me to find Walter Williams.  


And I played straight into his hands. With Moriarty at least I figured out the plot before the big twist at the end, added my own touch to the final scene, aborted tragedy, stood in triumph. Arrogantly believing that the worst was over and done with.  


People don’t have arch enemies in real life.  


I catch sight of a pattern of blood across the back of my hand and am unable to take my eyes off it.  


We reach the casino at closer to one. The courtyard in front of it, facing the water, is playing host to eight police vehicles and police men and women are standing about, discussing, reporting, doing whatever it is they do. They’ve sealed the area off, but at the sight of us they let us through without any questions.  


Mycroft is waiting for us in front of the open double doors. His looks are dire. So I was right, then. My stomach churns with misgivings as I walk past him without hardly a glance and step into the completely stripped room, which previously served as the tranquil lobby.  


The walls and floor are bare concrete; the ceiling is nothing but a cross-layering of metal beams and poles. The only light comes from two floodlights brought by the police and hooked up to a generator.  


“What the hell?” I hear you say not far behind me.  


I proceed up to the doorway – now lacking those heavy, carved wooden doors – and step into a corridor that is as drab as how I assume the rest of the establishment now is: completely emptied of previous glories.  


“Yesterday it was business as usual. We didn’t notice a thing,” Mycroft says and I turn to him as he joins us in the corridor.  


“Of course you didn’t,” I reply.  


The efficiency it must have taken to erase every last remnant of the casino, leaving the building simply an old tomb of post-war architecture, is almost daunting to consider. The very structure itself, the mazelike quality of it, has been removed. Left are only a few dozen compartments and between them nothing but open space. Where before there were stairs, now there are iron ladders.  


I can’t help but be impressed.  


“Sir!” a voice calls from behind us.  


It belongs to a young police woman who waves at Mycroft to follow her.  


“What is it?” he wants to know, not moving from his spot and she comes back around the corner of the corridor where she had disappeared and answer:  


“We’ve found a body, sir.”  


We follow Mycroft as he immediately moves in her direction, climbing down the ladder leaned against the chopped off floorboards that before would have led into another winding corridor. Now that corridor is nothing but empty space and the interior of the large building has been hollowed out – only a ghastly framework remains of what used to be the top floor of the casino, but now looks more like walkways around the factory space of the original structure. The ladder takes us down to the vast lower floor of this factory, dug deep into the ground. The cement is wet. Scrubbed clean of any trace evidence. But in the far left corner a body is displayed.  


As we near it, I know it and what I came to work out at Walter’s is confirmed: the anonymous doorman. He was one of only two in that sanctified position, according to Mycroft’s records; one of two fixed guardians of the casino’s innermost secrets, keeping track of every guest, every win and every loss. Devon Duprée. Paid for his sins with his life.  


My eyes land on something carefully pulled through one of the buttonholes on the man’s jacket and I feel enraged, but unable not to see the irony and so a small smile escapes me at the sight of a tiny, blue forget-me-not.  


“What now?” you ask, looking up at me.  


“Now?” I ask in return, keeping the smile on, though I begin to feel it’s much too crooked. “Game over,” I finish.  


**September 26th**

  


I pull on my jacket in the hallway of my flat, where we’ve spent all of Tuesday without a word exchanged between us. We got back in the early hours of Tuesday morning, Sherlock just barely removing his coat before crashing onto the lilo, disappearing under the blankets. I watched over him warily, understanding what has brought this on and knowing there’s nothing I can do.  


I now look at the heap of blankets that are hiding my friend and I’m torn between wishing I could kick them off him and knowing that he needs rest. The problem is that I’m a little too well aware of what this rest means: him not speaking for at least two more days and nibbling nothing but bread crusts and eating the odd egg. It’s not healthy – it’s lethargy at its most severe; a depression of the senses that leaves him completely numb.  


“I’m off,” I say, not expecting a reply and not getting one. “There’s tea in the kettle. Warm. For now. And bread in the toaster, I know you prefer it cold so just leave it for a minute.”  


I sigh, mostly at myself. He chatters when I’m not in the room – I chatter when he’s there, but non-responsive. It’s a circle, it seems, and astonishingly enough nothing has changed.  


I’ve seen him like this before, between cases, when the tedium of existence begins to niggle at him and driving me insane about his frame of mind won’t cut it anymore – when this happens he’ll lapse into hour-long silences that don’t result in any form of interaction. But this. Now, this is a different form of dullness: failure is like a dreadful toxin that attacks his system and leaves his sharpness blunted. I haven’t been able to find a way to snap him out of it on the few occasions I’ve had to bear witness to it before and I doubt I will be able to now.  


I almost called in sick from work, I know he’s in a danger zone and I’m rather unwilling to leave him alone, but I’ve been away for a week and can’t very well stay home with a clean conscience. Lukewarm tea and cooling toast – Sherlock will in all probability be fine and immobile until I get home.  


Leaving the apartment I realize I’m not worried about Moran. I don’t catch myself glancing up at the surrounding rooftops or thinking that I see a threat in every face I meet. He clearly tricked Sherlock into leading him to Walter Williams. I’m still unclear on exactly how he managed it, but the results make it glaringly obvious. Sherlock rubbing the dried blood off his hands in the helicopter is haunting me more than the sight of Walter William’s death.  


On my way across Russell Square I notice, out of the corner of my eye, that I’m being approached and when I turn my head to the young man I can see immediately that he’s press. Perhaps Sherlock’s many rants about the choice of coat and the tell-tale signs of eyebrow-to-ear ratio have actually rubbed off on me. Or, possibly, it’s the ID he flashes me.  


“Not going to happen,” I say as pleasantly as I can, heading toward the gates of the square, the safety of the practice only a minute away.  


“Come on, Dr. Watson – nothing personal, just wanted a statement about your professional relationship with the Hatman.”  


I smirk at the sensational way he uses the nick-name.  


“I’ll tell him you called him that,” I say, “better watch your back,” I finish meaningfully, shouldering open the door of the practice and continuing through it.  


My colleagues are all smiles, welcoming me back, clearly eager to hear every singular detail about Sherlock’s return. In fact, they seem to expect it over cake at lunch, but it’s a Wednesday and cakes are reserved for afternoon tea on Fridays and I won’t be bought with chocolate.  


Gareth Richardson looks rather sympathetic and is the only one of them to offer me a firm handshake and no questions. I’m grateful, however good-naturedly the others’ prodding may be.  


I call Audrey for a second time in the afternoon, surprised she didn’t return my call in the morning – I would’ve liked to have taken her to lunch – but she doesn’t reply and at four she sends me a text saying she’s away for a few days and she’ll call me as soon as she gets back. I can’t help but feel rebuffed, but I suppose I deserve it.  


The day progresses slowly. I’m happy to get to check up on my regular patients, making sure they’re doing okay, listening to their complaints about achy limbs and stiff backs; still, I’m only partially focused and when the clock finally strikes six I’m already done with all my paperwork and relieved to be able to leave my office for the walk back home.  


I buy Chinese on the way, hoping I’ll be able to tempt Sherlock into eating something, and when I arrive I realize I should’ve anticipated the swarm of reporters outside the door. I push my way through them saying nothing, closing the door in their faces.  


I take the stairs two steps at a time and on the top step an unbidden, irrational sense of fear comes over me that has nothing to do with the state I left him in. The sound of the glass cracking two nights ago and the low thwack of the bullet going into the armchair are suddenly loud in my ears and my heart is thumping when I shakily get the key in the lock. I turn the doorknob and step inside. I feel unsteady and almost desperately certain that I’m on my own again. Because of course he will have rallied. He always rallies. He’ll have picked himself up and gone in search of a new problem to dissect. And the difference will be that this time he won’t come back.  


When I stop in the doorway of the sitting room and see the heap of blankets that is my friend, still in the exact same place as where I left him, I feel a little astonished at how much I just overreacted. A surge of defensive anger chases the last of the fear away, but it too abates as I hang my jacket up and say:  


“Got food.”  


I head into the kitchen, opening up the boxes, feeling how hungry I am and thinking it humanly impossible for him not to be ravenous.  


I check the toaster and at least he’s had half a slice.  


“There are reporters outside, in case you didn’t know,” I tell him. “Should be alright in here, but if you want to go back to the other room we’ll have to stage some sort of getaway.” I smile at the thought, stacking the boxes against my chest as I head into the sitting room. “Sherlock?” I say, giving what I take to be his foot a nudge before squatting down, putting the boxes on the floor. “Sherlock,” I repeat. “You should eat something.”  


I reach out and pull off the three blankets covering his head. His face is turned to me, scrounged up against the pillow under his cheek, his dark locks falling down over his forehead, his eyes closed. He’s deeply asleep. I sit back on my heels, searching his features for warning signs that I should be more concerned than I am, but he looks peaceful enough and I grab the box with the shrimp noodles and turn on the telly, having a seat in the armchair and digging in.  


**September 28th**

  


Something wormlike is in my brain. Whenever it writhes its little, gray body my thoughts collapse in on themselves, forming black holes. Nothingness. Or a degree of nothingness, because the rest remains. When the worm stills itself, the rest remains. I need a stimulant. I need an outlet. I need the worm to stop eating itself through my head.  


“Ah,” you say when I struggle myself into a seated position. “He lives. I was just about to call the coroner.”  


“You can’t threaten me with Molly Hooper,” I grumble, rising to my feet and staggering on stiff legs into the kitchen.  


It’s abominably free of mess and I feel like pulling everything out of the cupboards just so that I will have something to train my eyes on, something other than blank surfaces in need of filling. I’m still wearing shirt and trousers from – when? What day is it? It’s of no consequence. Where is my wallet?  


I head for the hallway and my coat, hanging on its regular hook.  


You seem to have designated hooks.  


How very like you.  


“It’s not there,” your voice says from the sitting room.  


You’re having a cup of tea at your leisure, sipping it loudly as I stop in the doorway, and you glance up at me over the rim. I must look as furious as I feel because you raise your eyebrows, expression cool when you lower the cup to look at me.  


“No cash, no credit cards,” you state.  


“John,” I say, wanting to sound reproving, knowing that it won’t work – we’ve been through this too many times for me to even have any hope that I can actually talk you into aiding me. “It’s not what you think,” I try. “I’m hungry.”  


“Oh, don’t make it worse,” you say, getting to your feet. “Go have a shower, change your clothes. I’ll put some coffee on.”  


“Thank you, but, unlike you, I’ve no hankering for itchy wool covered with psychedelic colour combinations,” I reply sourly, for a moment thinking I might just put my coat and shoes on and go out in search of Bernie; after my years of faithfully employing his network he does owe me a favour or two – he’ll provide for me.  


“No, let’s give psychedelic a wide berth,” your voice states from the kitchen. “Mycroft sent some of your clothes over. Box in the bedroom.”  


I hesitate a moment longer – the urge to have bought or borrowed bliss blotting out the stagnation I’m experiencing, the overpowering sense of uselessness that’s like a sticky web beneath my skin, have it all burned away for a night or two: the temptation is sweet, almost balsamic. To act on it would be so much better.  


But the sound of you filling the kettle with water and turning on the stove gets me moving into your bedroom instead, glaring at the box standing primly by the foot of the bed, mocking me. Mycroft might as well have scribbled ‘For a job well done’ all over it in thick, black marker. I’m not looking forward to our next meeting.  


I yank my clothes off, tossing them in careless defiance on the floor, heading into the bathroom. Soon the shower is steaming into scorching heat and I step into it, hating to admit that it feels good.  


The box contains two suits, which I am appalled at seeing folded up like scrap meat, four shirts – as ill-treated – pants and socks. Guess I’m all provided for. I dress, choosing the purple shirt and black suit, combing my fingers through my hair, thinking I need a haircut, borrowing your razor for an even more needed shave before I walk into the kitchen, where the coffee is waiting for me. You hand me a mug and watch as I take a mouthful.  


“Mh,” I say in approval.  


You give me a brief smile, but your eyes are concerned as you keep them in mine. I give a soft sigh.  


“I’m fine,” I assure you.  


“Really?” you ask.  


“Perfectly alright,” I nod.  


“Because-...”  


“Yes,” I interrupt.  


“You-...”  


“Fine,” I cut in again.  


You grow quiet for a moment; then say with a trying smile:  


“Good. That’s good, then.”  


I don’t want to talk about it and you know this. Whenever this need to lie perfectly still takes over me as entirely as it has for the past few days there’s never been anything I can do about it. I can’t find the will to will myself out of bed – all I can do is sleep. And stare. Without thinking, because every time I try to activate my mind there are the black holes and information goes astray. It’s my own personal version of hell.  


Five minutes later a pizza arrives.  


“You said you were hungry,” you remind me with a meaningful look that makes me understand I’m going to eat whether I want to or not.  


I want to.  


¤

  


I step in through the door of my brother’s study, feeling tension across my back and trying my best to ignore it. Rigidly I stop before his desk – the room as sparse as the rest of his town house and a desk and chair being the only furniture – waiting for him to put down the newspaper in his hands and look at me. It takes another full minute and I’m grinding my jaws with annoyance by the time he finally folds the newspaper neatly and puts it aside, glancing up to meet my gaze.  


“Sebastian Moran,” I say.  


He takes another moment before he leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers as he eyes me.  


“You know that won’t do,” he finally says. At my cocked eyebrow he adds: “A written report. In full, Sherlock. Every last detail. On this desk by nightfall.”  


I give a noise of concurrence; about to turn and leave, hoping we can simply leave it at that, but he stops me with:  


“The other matter I put before you is still in need of a resolution. You can’t claim to be too busy now.”  


“I’ve a report to write,” I shoot back, but he merely smiles, rising to his feet.  


“Tomorrow, then. Mr. Woodsbridge enjoys breakfast at The Pestle and Mortar. It’s near-...”  


“I know where it is.”  


“Good. Shall we say seven?”  


I know my face settle into a glare of disapproval, but I’ve no protest to offer up and, truth be told, I’m mildly relieved at the prospect of a case being presented with some urgency attached to it. I’m not sure what I would’ve done with weeks of peace and quiet.  


I leave through the dining room, walking along the polished oak table, the chairs standing with their straight backs in perfect formation around its shiny surface and I slow, stopping at the head of it and looking down it toward the other end of it – empty. And I know what Sebastian Moran is right now facing, seated at the head of a table as polished as this, working to keep his associates in formation, with no one at the other end of it. He’s alone and for the first time I honestly believe that he is the weaker for it.  


I reach for my mobile, thinking we might go to your favourite Italian for lunch, but then I recall that you were meeting Audrey and after a moment’s contemplation I decide against interfering in any way. Given how you reacted last time.  


Instead I head back to your apartment to write that report.


	14. Losing His Footing

“Hello,” I yell as I close the front door to Audrey’s flat, kicking off my shoes as I remove my jacket. “Glad you texted – I was beginning to think you weren’t ever coming back.” I smile as I head into the sitting room. “Ah,” I say, picking up the paperback on the armrest of the sofa, “you bought it. It’s good, isn’t it? How far have you gotten? It’s a bit slow at first, but by chapter three…” I trail off as she comes to the doorway of the bedroom – looking pretty, I notice – and I meet her gaze as I say: “Hi.”  


She smiles a little.  


“Hi,” she replies; adding: “I just got to the part where the little boy finds the gun in the attic and thinks it’s a toy. Having bad feelings about where it’s headed.”  


My smile broadens, but I notice there’s hesitancy on her. She hasn’t come up to put her arms around me or kiss me hello. I begin to feel the outlines of that wall again, stone by stone, and I put the book down.  


“Listen, I’ve been thinking,” she says.  


I can tell she’s struggling to keep a casual air to her movements; unsuccessfully, as all of them feel studied and mechanical, as though she’s putting on a show. But she’s better than this.  


“Dangerous pastime,” I say with a trying smirk. “Trust me – I’ve seen the carnage up close and personal. Sherlock-…”  


“Are you in love with him?”  


The interruption is so abrupt, the question so unbidden, so snatched out of thin air that I begin to grow aware of just how thin the air is getting. In fact, it’s becoming a little hard to breathe. I stare at her, feeling as though I don’t know her. She’s a stranger. Remote and separated from me completely.  


“With who?” I ask, as calmly as I can manage.  


She gives me a look that is both pitiful and reproving.  


“Are you in love with Sherlock Holmes?” she clarifies.  


My eyes widen.  


There’s a beat of silence.  


Then I exclaim:  


“What is it with you _bloody_ women?” My frustration and disbelief with her completely taking over as I continue: “Is it really this easy for you to read into things? Can’t two blokes be mates without you having to make it into something more? For God’s sakes, I’ve spent a year sharing your bed, have I ever given you any reason to think I’m gay?”  


She takes in my outburst without even flinching and then calmly replies with:  


“I didn’t ask if you’re gay – I asked if you’re in love with Sherlock Holmes.”  


“Based on what?” I demand.  


“Your infatuation with him for one,” she answers simply.  


“Infatuation?” I once more raise my voice, feeling how a flush is creeping up my throat towards my face as I can hardly comprehend what she’s standing there and saying to me.  


“You haven’t left his side-…” she begins, but I can’t stop myself from yelling:  


“He came back from the dead!”  


She eyes me for a brief second before she retorts drily:  


“Like Jesus.”  


“Yes, that’s exactly right, yes, like Jesus,” I nod, glaring at her, at what she thinks she’s doing, turning herself into something unfamiliar and unwanted in this outrageous way.  


“Well, you do follow him wherever he goes, whatever he does, like a faithful disciple,” she now quips, though there’s not a trace of humour in her voice.  


“ _What_?” I demand.  


“I think I get it, though,” she continues. “That part of it, at least, because I’ve realized that you’ll always be a soldier first, John, no matter how much you try to be a doctor, and what is a soldier without his orders? And who would be a better commander in chief than someone so commanding of every last _morsel_ of your attention?”  


“You sound like a jealous girlfriend,” I shoot back, my pulse raging through my veins in a way that makes me feel as though my chest is about to spontaneously combust.  


“That’s below the belt!” she exclaims. “I _am_ a jealous girlfriend, you bloody idiot. I’ve every right to sound like one.”  


“There’s nothing to be jealous of!” I state, exasperated with this stupid argument already, wanting to put an end to it and return everything to how it was just a moment before I stepped through that door. “I thought I’d lost him!” I add. “What did you expect me to do? Give him a pat on the back and leave it there? Christ! We’re done with the case. It’s done. I’m here. Right?”  


“And what about the next case?” she asks.  


I don’t know what to answer. I can’t lie to her, but I don’t know how to tell her the truth and suddenly I wonder what I’m doing. The confusion drives away the upset emotions and I no longer feel indignation at her straight questions, but rather defeat at how I don’t know how to make her the promises she’s clearly seeking.  


“And what about him staying at yours?” she continues at my silence. “You’re practically living together; you don’t think that’s what he wants?”  


“What _he_ wants?” I ask, taken aback by her even involving Sherlock’s considerations in this discussion and realizing that I haven’t.  


“Oh, John. You don’t even...” She trails off, looking pained for a moment before her face smoothes, seemingly collecting herself and that confrontational air leaving her somewhat as she says: “What will it be like? Whenever you get another case?”  


“What do you mean?” I wonder stupidly.  


“I mean what can I expect, time-wise? A week per case? Two weeks? Longer for some of them? And will it be round the clock? Will you be home in the evenings, waiting for him to call at a moment’s notice? You’d leave in the middle of the night. I wouldn’t know if you were safe or coming home. You’ve barely called me since he came back.”  


“That’s... It wasn’t...” I stumble, trying to sound convincing as I finish: “I’d do better. It’s just been...”  


“Yeah,” she nods. “Distracting.”  


“Audrey,” I say. “He’s a friend. A good friend. He doesn’t _need_ me to... I’m not there to... It’s not about that sort of thing, it never has been. Sherlock doesn’t understand about love. There’s no point in...”  


I trail off, losing my train of thought and finding myself unable to get back on track again. I don’t know how to explain it to her and I feel like I have to, like I should at least try. Sherlock would say something along the lines of how she’s drawn her conclusions from a defective study of the facts and I need to enlighten her to her errors. I’m just at a loss with how to even begin correcting her.  


“But you love him,” she prods and I wonder why goose bumps of discomfort spread up my arms at the simplicity of her statement.  


“I don’t understand where all this is coming from,” I say instead of actually offering any kind of substantial reply.  


She eyes me for a moment before she reaches for her laptop on the coffee table, taking a short second to find the right passage and then reading my own words back to me:  


“’Not sure my life with Sherlock is compatible with long-term relationships.’”  


“That’s years ago,” I protest, hearing how feeble it sounds.  


“You consciously made the decision against pursuing anything that could come between you and him,” she says, mercilessly. “You even put it on this blog that has your name on it, but really is all about him, isn’t it? Post after post where you try to work him out, John. I can understand that. He’s fascinating. He sits across from you and you can almost hear him picking you apart. But are you going to be the observer for the rest of your life, then? If you don’t love him – then what? What is it? What is it that makes you choose him without a second thought? No, really. I really want to know.”  


“I’m not _choosing_ him,” I protest, this time more forcefully.  


“But you _are_. You have. You _will_ ,” she retorts. “John, I love you,” she says and I feel a lump begin to form in my throat. “The time I’ve spent with you… I don’t regret a single day of it. But I’ve been waiting. I’ve been patient. I think I’ve been patient, anyway… I can’t spend the rest of my life waiting for you to come home.”  


“Every time _won’t_ be like this,” I shake my head, though I know I can’t possibly guarantee it.  


“No,” she says, “I don’t mean the case, I mean...” and her eyes suddenly fill with tears as she wraps her arms around herself. “Damn it,” she swears, wiping at her cheeks with the palm of one hand before she looks back at me. “I _mean_ – since I met you, I’ve waited for you to talk to me about him. And it wasn’t because I was curious, but because I could see this... this horrible pain you were carrying with you. And I hoped you’d open up. I hoped... You don’t know how much I hoped you’d want to seek comfort from me. All those nights you woke me up, yelling his name. God, John.”  


The tears spill over again and I feel somewhat dazed by how focused I’ve been on myself, how blind I’ve kept myself to what she’s gone through, had to go through with me. Those nightmares feel decades away now.  


“I know I can’t understand what watching him fall from that roof must’ve done to you,” she says, sniffling before she continues: “but I understood your faith in him and I hoped… I wanted you to talk to me about all those questions you must’ve had, about how he could do that, why, what drove him to it. But you didn’t turn to me. Not once, for anything. And I thought, well, then, he can’t be inconsolable. He’s living his life; he’s loving me; so whatever Sherlock Holmes left behind is still a whole person.”  


She’s looking at me as though she wants to stop this honesty right now, in its tracks, and forget about it, go on as we have before, take that weekend trip, stay together, and a part of me desperately wants her to do just that.  


“But I was wrong,” she gets out, throat constricted with her held back emotion and when I reach out to run my thumbs over her cheeks she doesn’t move, merely finishes: “I was wrong, because I’ve never seen you be the way you are when you’re with him. He does something to you. Something good so I can’t even object to it.”  


She smiles through her tears at the contradiction, but I just want her to stop crying. She doesn’t. She takes a step back, away from me.  


“Audrey,” I say her name again and when she looks at me I know it’s over; I can’t salvage it; I’ve wrecked it.  


“I can’t,” she shakes her head. “I won’t.”  


“But...”  


“Can you tell me it’ll be any different? Next time?”  


I stare at her and I know that she already knows what the answer is. She pulls both hands over her face, quickly getting rid of the fresh tears before she nods.  


“You should go,” she says, turning from me and walking into the kitchen.  


I almost go after her. I want to hold her, cry with her over this irrecoverable life that she’s let me be a part of, that’s saved me, in many ways, from myself, from dark thoughts and solitude. She was that guide I clung to; she showed me how to live normal, everyday living. I needed her so much, but the truth is...  


The truth is I do need what Sherlock offers more.  


The soldier in me needing orders – I wonder if that’s an accurate description and that the purpose of it all is to serve something greater than oneself. Since I was young I’ve striven, I’ve wanted and longed to make a difference; to be a part of whatever there is outside of the square-shape that is everyone’s right. Sherlock represents every shape imaginable and he offers them to me freely.  


I turn and head back into the hall, quietly putting my shoes and jacket back on before I close the door with a soft click behind me.  


¤

  


I enter my flat half an hour later, having walked home in a light, chilly drizzle, trying to clear my head and only managing to feel all the more tangled. There’s sorrow at the hurt I’ve caused, knowing I will come to miss her, the reality of it not having hit home quite yet and all I can feel is a sense of welcomed finality. It makes me feel shame along with the bafflement at Audrey even for a moment believing I could be in love with Sherlock. God help the poor soul who actually ever truly loves him, is all I can think.  


He’s on the floor of the sitting room with sheets of paper strewn all around him, all of them covered in what might be the smallest handwriting I’ve ever seen; by the looks of it his and not quite as meticulous as it usually is. The display makes me frown as I stop in the doorway.  


“What’s this?” I ask.  


“Report,” he answers, looking up at me. “Mycroft requested it. Alright, he ordered it.”  


“Mh,” I make a disconcerted face before I head into the kitchen, “know how good you are with taking orders.”  


“I’m writing it,” Sherlock’s voice deflects.  


“And drawing diagrams,” I agree, pouring myself a large glass of whiskey before I join him in the sitting room, looking over the fifty or so pages he’s already managed to fill, unable not to be impressed. “What page count are you aiming for?”  


“An even hundred should do it,” he replies.  


“And of course you’ll hand them in unnumbered,” I say, which makes him smile briefly.  


I wonder at that smile, suddenly.  


Having a seat in the armchair I surreptitiously watch him as he works, finding myself curiously considering what it would take to make him care. Well, he does care. He’s not unfeeling, or he wouldn’t have fallen off that building to save lives. But does he classify the emotion as anything worth having? Does he experience it the way I would? The way I have. Would he mourn me if I died? Would he miss me?  


I come to think of Irene Adler and my previous musings over her impact on him. Did he love her? Did he recognize the emotion? Did it register? Would it? Was that what those months were about following her faked death? Or was it the failure to help a client that her death represented? Or both? With her it was her mind that drew him to her, made him vulnerable. So was it love or was it simply him reflecting himself in her? Sure sounds like Sherlock.  


If there are important answers to be had he’ll find good use in watching paint dry, that’s just how his brain works. What will put a regular person to sleep will engage him and set him off in a dozen different directions in one split second. Irene Adler was not his equal, but she did know how to use him, manipulate him, just as she did everyone else. Perhaps that’s how you gain his respect – by outwitting him.  


But his trust? Would that make him trust you? I believe he does trust me. It’s never been very clear to me exactly what he saw in me or exactly why he kept me around, but he found me again, didn’t he? He sought my company. So, whatever else, at least he must want it. He calls me his friend. I am his friend.  


I have a mouthful of the strong liquor, savouring the sensation of it burning its way through my chest to settle its fire in my belly; the autumn cold turning to slowly charring embers and I sigh.  


“Didn’t go well?” Sherlock asks, not looking at me as he continues to write. “With Audrey,” he adds at my lack of response. “Doesn’t exactly take a whole lot of brain power – you’re back within two hours, you obviously walked home even though it’s raining and you’re drinking before eight.”  


“It’s Saturday,” I protest. “And I _like_ the rain,” I add, noting his cocked eyebrow. “No, it didn’t go well. We broke up,” I mutter into my glass, having another mouthful.  


“That’s too bad. I rather liked her,” he states matter-of-factly, finishing the page and tossing it amongst the others.  


“Yes, me, too,” I sigh again. “She said...” I begin, catching myself and suddenly my pulse quickens at what I almost confessed to him.  


“What?” he asks, still focused on the new sheet before him.  


I smile, wishing I knew why I’m suddenly feeling flustered as I rise from the chair.  


“God, I’m starving,” I say, walking into the hall and digging through the single drawer of the spindly table standing beside the door, fishing out a collection of take away menus that I hope are still functional – I haven’t had need of them in a while.  


The thought makes me suddenly feel overwhelmingly sad and I want to call Audrey immediately just to tell her I’m sorry, just to hear her say it’s okay, but I don’t. And I know full well I won’t. I have to let her go now.  


“What’s good – Indian, Chinese, Portuguese?” I ask, fishing out my mobile.  


“Mh,” he responds and I know I’ve probably lost him for the rest of the evening, but I don’t mind.  


I order Indian and settle down in front of the telly, finding the soft rustle of another sheet being finished and tossed aside comforting, glancing over at him from time to time, thinking it quite the miracle that we’re spending a Saturday night together like this when two weeks ago the notion would have been inconceivable to me. How quickly things change. 

**September 29th**

  


I watch as Mr. Allen Woodsbridge stirs his fourth spoon of sugar into his blackcurrant tea. He’s enjoying himself a little too much, for my taste, and is prolonging the big reveal of exactly what he’s doing for my brother. He’s wearing the same tweed jacket as last I saw him, but has moss-green trousers and a dark brown shirt on; making me conclude his wife is clearly not in London with him.  


“Mr. Woodsbridge, I really would rather just get this over with as quickly as possible,” I say, making him raise his eyebrows as he looks up at me from his stirring, a smile soon gracing his lips as he takes the cup and leans back on his chair. “If you don’t mind,” I add benevolently.  


“Yes,” Mr. Woodsbridge says, “your brother told me patience wasn’t one of your virtues.”  


“And what else did my brother tell you?” I ask, the mention of Mycroft an immediate irritant and I lean forward as I continue: “You believe you’re a mystery to me? I know you’re an over-achiever, a workaholic, obsessed with the subject you study, which – by the looks of your left hand and the dust on your right pant leg – is either precious metals or precious stones. Oh, don’t mock me with fake surprise. You’re here because you’ve followed my career and find me what? Captivating?” I ask contemptuously.  


“Yes,” Mr. Woodsbridge admits freely. “But mostly I’m here because your brother told me you’d be able to help me find a treasure I’ve sought all my life; and after having read the astonishing retellings of your methods, Mr. Holmes, I no longer doubted that you were the only man in the world who could aid me.”  


I narrow my eyes, scanning through the headlines of the past six months but finding myself unable to recollect a single one of them dealing with stolen jewels important enough to warrant this type of proclamation.  


Mr. Woodsbridge smiles delightedly as I can’t keep the creeping intrigue off my face.  


¤

  


I’m fairly certain I’ve forgotten to buy the specific pen Sherlock asked me to get for him and I know I didn’t get the right kind of cheese, but I did buy half a pound of corned beef to take up space and collect dust in the cupboard as it’s never going to get eaten. All this on account of how I’ve been distracted all morning after a night of restless sleep and I almost stopped in the middle of Waitrose to call Audrey – she caused this confusion, she can un-cause it. But then I grudgingly had to admit that it isn’t her fault and it’s unfair to blame her.  


All it is, really, is that while I was trying to go to sleep last night there was one thing Audrey said to me that began to repeat in my head and the more I tried to ignore it, the louder it got and it hasn’t been any different all morning. Her comment about me being an observer has brought on other questions, like what exactly it is that I think I’m doing, accepting this somewhat unconventional tie to a person who’s obviously begun to take me for granted – like I’m his coat or his magnifying glass – without even feeling the need to reflect over it. I let a wonderful woman go and for what? To feel guilty I couldn’t find a five millimetre blue-ink, felt-tip pen?  


His return managed to wipe out all the bad memories, all the brutality of his leaving, the broken state I was in. Because of how his return mended me all I have felt is gratitude; but Audrey reminded me and I haven’t quite been able to rid myself of the residue of remembering.  


Will I be able to make him include me this time around or will we end up where we always end up – with him three steps ahead and me on his heels, but struggling to keep up? Does he trust me enough to want me in the thick of things alongside him, or does he, at the end of the day, trust no one but himself?  


I manage to get the front door of the flat open without dropping the two shopping bags I’m carrying, getting myself into the kitchen and lifting them onto the counter with a huff, hearing the door slam shut and turning my head to catch a glimpse of Sherlock as he disappears into the sitting room.  


I cock an eyebrow, but unload the groceries, throwing out half a pint of old milk and cleaning out a stale piece of bread out of the bread box in the process before putting the plastic bags in their allotted drawer and heading into the sitting room. There I find Sherlock seated on the chair with my laptop opened before him, tapping away and I halt, about to voice a protest, but then I simply fist my hands for a second, collecting my patience as I ask:  


“New case?”  


“You could say that,” he says loftily and I glare at the back of his head.  


I could walk out. I could leave. I could.  


“It’s not what _you’d_ say?” I ask instead.  


“It’s a five at best. You know I don’t classify anything taking me less than twenty-four hours as an actual case,” he replies and I find myself smiling.  


“What is it?” I inquire.  


“The Morcar pendant, designed by the countess of Morcar in 1890. In its centre is a precious gemstone said to be the size of a nightjar’s egg,” he replies, fingers moving over the keys, eyes fixed on the screen and I frown.  


“And that’s big?”  


He crooks one corner of his mouth into a quick smile, replying:  


“Fairly big.”  


“Okay,” I say. “And this pendant’s… missing?”  


“Precisely,” he says, turning his head to me, resting his hands as he observes me keenly. “Stolen from a hotel room in London in 1892. Never to be seen again. Have you heard this story before?”  


“No,” I shake my head.  


“There was a nationwide search, but naturally they came up short.”  


“Well, naturally,” I concede.  


“So what makes a case over a century old interesting?” he asks, knowing that he now has my full attention. “The precious gemstone of the pendant was a garnet: a type of crystal which, granted, comes in varying shades and has been used for jewellery since the Romans, but it wasn’t until a little over a decade ago that the rarest shade of garnet was discovered in Madagascar. Now, the popular rumour in collectors’ circles has always been that the Morcar pendant was really the first to showcase this rare colour.”  


“And why is that?” I wonder.  


“Because the pendant was also known as The Blue Carbuncle,” he replies. “And a carbuncle gets its name from being a garnet cut in a very specific way.”  


I raise my eyebrows and he smiles as he can see I’m hooked.  


“So it’s a treasure hunt?” I ask as his fingers start moving over the keys again.  


“I need you to get something for me,” is his reply.  


¤

  


The room smells musty from underuse as we’ve spent no time in it for nearly a week. I crack a window open before I turn to the unmade pullout; unable to leave it as it is I fold the blankets and sheets and put them away in the closet before I fold the pullout back where it belongs, straightening the cushions of the sofa. Feeling satisfied I turn to the built-in bookcase where a selection of binders is located.  


1850-1900, Sherlock instructed its label should say and I stop by the shelf, running my fingers along the wide backs, searching as they’re all in disorder and declaring names and locations and dates in what seems like complete disarray, but which is undoubtedly part of some perfectly logical system.  


My wandering fingertips slow and I frown lightly.  


“That can’t be right,” I mumble, reaching up and pulling out a thick folder with my name in slim, fluent writing on its spine.  


¤

  


You return just as I’ve finished the final stage of my internet search and I’m glad, I want to go through the notes I made a decade or so ago, after the case of the stolen piece of jewellery first caught my attention as the mystery was dissected – to the best of the writer’s ability – in an historical journal. Now, thanks to the information I’ve been given by Mr. Woodsbridge, I’ve no hesitation that I’ll be able to tie it up before sunrise.  


However, the dossier which thuds onto the floor next to me is not the binder I was expecting and I glance at it, hoping that you at least brought the one I asked for as well.  


“What’s this?” you inquire.  


There’s tightness in your voice that I somehow manage to ignore as I simply reply:  


“Data. Where’s the one I specified?”  


“I didn’t bring it. Sorry,” you say and now I look up at you at the bite in that apology: clearly you feel quite the opposite. “Is this what I am?” you then ask and your anger finally becomes clear to me as you continue: “There are pictures in there of me, pages and pages about me, Sherlock, about everything I did after you...” You trail off abruptly, staring at me before you give a brief, annoyed smile as you come to an understanding and offer it by saying: “Mycroft. You had him watch me.”  


I raise me eyebrows.  


“No. …Yes,” I reply, but at your frown I elaborate: “I didn’t exactly _have_ him watch you. You were under a death threat; he volunteered to make sure you weren’t...”  


“Violently murdered?” you cut in and there’s a bitterness there that I’ve never seen on you before.  


Your fury is usually so well contained. You may think I don’t notice, but I do – how you’ve learned to bottle it up, to rationalize it into something irrational that must be contained. In that respect we’re alike. And so seeing you now, how close you seem to be to losing control over it completely, is unnerving.  


“Calm down,” I try to soothe, but it has the opposite effect as you exclaim:  


“I will _not_ calm down! Do you have any idea what an abuse of my privacy this is? I thought I should be concerned about Moran – turns out I should be worried about you and your bloody brother.”  


Your voice is raised. I’ve never seen you this furious. I’ve seen you impatient and annoyed and angry with me, but the emotion you’re directing toward me now is completely new and as such it’s all the more unsettling.  


I’ve been able to rely on our patterns. Even when I came back from being away for so long they re-established themselves without pause and it was a relief. A bigger relief than I would have expected. And I can see it all tearing at the edges now. What can I say? What do you want me to say?  


“It stopped the moment I got back,” I offer earnestly.  


“Yeah, well, it should never have happened,” you state and that new aversion in your eyes as you look at me begins to sting; I can see the disbelief that underlines it and this creeping fear I’ve felt since the cemetery seems to be confirmed: your faith is lost to me.  


Something ices itself along my spine when I realize that this confrontation is turning into a battle and that I somehow seem to be on the weaker side. I have no armour, no training, no idea how to avoid the clash. I can’t run – you won’t try to catch up this time, I can see it on your face. I’ve crossed a line. Irrevocably.  


“It was for your safety,” I counter rather stubbornly.  


“To hell with my safety,” you retort loudly. “What are _you_ doing with this information now?” you add and the ice begins to take flame. “You know, I’ve wondered, more than once, what sort of man you really are. I’ve wondered if there’s any respect in you for others, for me, or if none of it can possibly be anything more than part of whatever it is that goes on in your head. I think I just got my answer.”  


The edge to your words reminds me of the last time we were in a room together before I fell from that roof, the words you said then, how you meant them, how I knew that you meant them, and how I also knew that you wouldn’t ever get to see how necessary it all was and how, to me, that was the worst part of it.  


How do I explain why I even took that dossier? How do I tell you how curious I was of what you’d been doing with your time now that I wasn’t taking up so much of it anymore? How can I possibly validate my inexplicable need to take up more of it again without it sounding worse than how you’re now perceiving it? How are you perceiving it?  


I hate confusion. I hate these erratic thoughts you produce. I hate the uncertainty and this dread that accompanies it. That you’re going away now. That I’m losing you and I don’t have the proper skills to fight against it and it’s all my own doing.  


“I barely glanced at it,” I attempt a remedy, regretting the lie as I can tell you’re not buying it and adding: “Alright, I might’ve glanced, but Mycroft insisted.” Again you narrow your eyes and I confess: “Alright, he didn’t, but you know me-...”  


“No,” you interrupt me almost brutally, “that one won’t work this time. You’re going to listen to me. Spying on me is not acceptable.” You point to the dossier as you say: “That is not acceptable. It’s selfish and inconsiderate and I want you to apologize. Right now.”  


I stare at you, my mind a blank and of course I’m going to oblige you, but your cheeks are flushed and you’re shaking and I’m attacked with unwanted worry and so instead I say:  


“I wish you wouldn’t get yourself so upset.”  


“ _I’m_ upsetting me? _You’re_ upsetting me!” you yell, but then you calm down and again there’s that bitter tinge to your words as you almost seem to be speaking to yourself, saying: “No. No, of course you won’t, will you? Actually come out and say that I’m right and you’re sorry?” You pause, observing me with something so horribly pained in your eyes that I feel my mouth grow dry with apprehension. “Have you manipulated me from the start?” you wonder. “Has this all been about seeing how far you can push me? You always were a brilliant actor – that speech on the roof, the tears, the goodbye – I bought it all, didn’t I, just as you knew I would. Just as you’d planned it.”  


I have to break this train of thought. I don’t want to discuss this anymore. This argument is pointless, isn’t it? You accepted my return, you must have seen reason in my death, in how it saved your life, you must have forgiven me for it or you wouldn’t have stayed with me, you wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t seen the larger picture the way I tried to describe it. It must be enough. I won’t speak of it. I don’t want to speak about my reasons. It’s over and done with.  


“Is this about Audrey?” I therefore say.  


“No, this is about you and me,” you reply sharply. “About how you left and came back acting like you had any right to interfere. To read up on me like I was one of your clients. You brought me back into this for what? For Christ’s sake, anyone can write a blog for you, right? In fact, there are thousands of volunteers and I have most of their emails; I’ll make you a list.”  


I am slowly becoming aware of my inability to move or even to breathe; the most basic human traits feel alien and contorted in the growing alarm. Some distant part of my brain is telling me I must give you something, I must tell you at least some truth, but there is an overriding need to simply leave all this alone. It’s best left alone, isn’t it? Better than creating a wound that won’t heal over, saying the wrong thing. I only ever say the wrong thing. I don’t want to say the wrong thing.  


“John.”  


It’s all that comes to mind and your name can’t be wrong. It’s safe. It’s always felt safe to me.  


“I don’t even know what to think anymore,” you say, eyes in mine for another few short moments before you turn and walk up to the door, disappearing through it without another word and I sit there.  


I just sit there, because I can’t process. I can’t wrap my mind around exactly what just happened.  


¤

  


I am so disappointed. I am so indescribably angry with him. That he would do something so low, almost as though he was entitled to rummage through my personal affairs like they’re some languishing hobby he’d been neglecting since he went away. He left – so why am I getting clobbered over the head for it? Why am I the one who spent more than a year in a state of hiatus while he went on doing what he’s always done? Why am I the one who has to bow to his will and whim at every turn? I don’t care how damaged he is, whatever it is that makes him behave in this horrible way, I’m done finding excuses and being always the forgiving and patient touchstone. He doesn’t deserve it.  


When I spot the shiny black Cadillac pulling in to the curb I halt my step and let out a low moan of aggravation.  


“What now?” I mutter as the tinted window lowers and Mycroft’s latest lackey grants me a wide and deceptively inviting smile.


	15. 221B

I have plenty of time to regret even getting into the car as we drive along well-known streets that turn into lesser known streets, the busyness of the inner city transforming into something rural as large town houses shoulder each other on both sides, eager to take up the most space, show the more imposing front.  


What am I doing here? Why didn’t I simply turn around and walk away? And why can’t I get the somewhat puzzled expression on my friend’s face out of my head? All the things I threw at him. What I said about his goodbye on the roof... I didn’t mean it to sound as harsh as it did. I never had reason to doubt that moment until now and I can’t stand it. I can’t stand it and it made me lash out at him. Did he feel the sting of it? Why am I even worrying myself over whether he did or didn’t?  


I once sat across from his brother and I told him I didn’t think Sherlock felt things “that way” – to my mind his connection with the Adler woman had been cognitive rather than carnal. It was this belief, this thought that I understood his internal workings at least to some degree, that made me accept his choices surrounding his death, as well as his return, and take them at face value. However, that file brought home a rather stinging point: I allow for his behaviour. I may chastise him, I may attempt to guide him once in a while, but I also accept it. So what does that make me? What amount of blame for the state of things should be put on my shoulders? Can I even be responsible in this context? Wouldn’t that have to mean I expect myself to have some amount of control over him?  


I have plenty of time to think about this, too, as we near one of the larger houses. The way it’s half-hidden behind a high wall and glimpsed through the wrought iron bars of a gate, which soon enough opens to allow us passage, makes the building itself seem uninviting – more so than any of the other places Mycroft has brought me for our little one-on-ones.  


“Here we are, Dr. Watson,” the lackey smiles her best as she directs me out of the car.  


She leads me up the wide stone steps to a black-lacquered front door. On either side of it are tall, slim windows; lace curtains hiding the hall well-lit hall within. This simple promise of light makes the house feel less dramatic than how I perceived it on the short journey up the driveway – there will be no burning sconces on the walls or deeply shadowed corners.  


The lackey pushes the door open and I follow her into a rounded entrance hall, a stair along the wall opposite the door leading to a first-story landing. To the right and left are doorways leading into rooms with doorways leading into other rooms – four spacious rooms abreast in either direction: the house is bigger on the inside than what I took it to be from the outside.  


Its walls are eggshell white; it seems newly renovated and is practically bare of any furniture, though a beautiful antique-looking chair stands against one wall of the room we continue into, its large fireplace carved from light-blue marble in a soft, flowing pattern. A fire burns in its confines and it’s thankfully warm in the place.  


I remove my jacket as we continue into a second room where another fireplace is spreading its glow over a long dining table. Polished to within an inch of its life it looks as though it’s never been used, twelve chairs surrounding it with their high, gilt mahogany backs rigid. At the head of it sits Mycroft.  


The lackey excuses herself with a nod and we’re left alone.  


We size each other up in the silence. I feel he’s waiting for a reaction from me, but I’ve none to give him. I don’t want to engage, I want to listen and then leave.  


“I know it may not seem that way to you,” he finally speaks, “but I have a great appreciation for what you’ve done for Sherlock.”  


I give a derisive huff in response, but he moves his head in a way that underlines his sincerity.  


“I could tell you would have an influence on him right when we first met,” he discloses. “You were quite fearless. Not to be tampered with. I knew you would hold your own – even around him.”  


“Yes,” I answer impatiently.  


His face is serious as he watches me.  


“My brother,” he says slowly. The suddenly hesitant way the words leave his mouth makes my focus on him morph into an intimate studying of his features, but he’s unperturbed as he continues: “Well, you know him better than I do, I should think, but my brother has never made friends, shall we say, with ease. He’s always had rather an awkward relationship with social etiquette.”  


That makes me smirk in spite of myself because the delicate choice of phrase is the perfect opposite to Sherlock’s usual disregard for regulation. Mycroft mirrors the mirth for a brief second before we both strip it off for something more sober.  


“He’s always questioned everything,” Mycroft says, sounding contemplative now. “Such a headstrong boy.”  


He pauses, eyes back in mine as though he’s caught himself and he looks mildly bewildered at my presence for just a flicker of a moment, suddenly reminding me so much of Sherlock that for the first time I can see a resemblance between them.  


“For some reason he never questions you,” he then says. “Your presence. Your person. Sherlock has grown to care for you, Dr. Watson, and unfortunately it has led him into a predicament that he can’t get himself out of.”  


“A ‘predicament’?” I ask.  


The seething anger I have felt for quite some time begins to grow hotter by the second at this man’s constant taking of liberties and trampling borders that he has no right crossing.  


“His reliance on you is becoming a hindrance,” Mycroft replies simply, adding: “I tried to advice him that it was better not to contact you this time around. I may not fully understand my brother, I never could, but I can still tell when people affect him. You affect him, Dr. Watson.”  


He pauses and observes me before giving a small sigh, bringing out another one of those damned files, though this one is slim and contains only a handful of photographs, which he arranges with care on the table before him.  


I know he wants me to approach, but suddenly I feel a prickly fear at what I’m about to be shown. It takes me a good fifteen seconds to finally bring myself to move closer. I stop between the two chairs nearest to him, looking at what he’s displayed: images of someone’s beaten, bloody face, someone obviously very badly injured – someone possibly even on the brink of death – with one swelled eye, the jaw nearly broken, a fracture above the right eyebrow and the impact of fists creating bruises that will not fade easily.  


“Who is it?” I ask.  


“His name is Mishka Stromanov,” Mycroft replies. “He was the first to be apprehended.” He eyes me for another beat before he adds: “Sherlock did this to him.”  


My throat constricts and I find it hard to swallow as I stare at the crushed and mangled human being.  


Assassin.  


This man was a murderer. A threat. I know what Sherlock is capable of, this is not a shock to me, but what Mycroft says next makes me suddenly feel weak.  


“Stromanov was appointed to you.”  


Stromanov’s bullet with my name on it. Sherlock’s sacrifice for his friends, arms spread wide as he embraced his fate and fell from grace. His hunt for retribution. Salvation. But this attack was something more. I can see it in the fury of the destruction it left behind. What he did to this man in the photographs – that was personal. That was vindication. For me.  


“Is he dead?” I ask, clearing my throat as I realize it’s grown hoarse.  


“No,” Mycroft answers.  


I’m glad of it. And with the answer I begin to understand the depth of truth behind Mycroft’s words, behind his concern. It starts to sink in. Everything he’s said since I came into this room suddenly gains more meaning as I actually allow myself to hear it.  


Have I ever doubted that Sherlock has cared about me? Truly? Would I have gone through all I’ve been through with him – _for_ him – if I didn’t trust in him, in what we’ve shared together? I’ve never been closer to anyone in my life and how could I ever think that it wasn’t mutual? Perhaps not in the strictest sense, perhaps his definition of friendship is slightly skewed from mine, and yet.  


“What is it you expect of me?” I ask Mycroft.  


Suddenly I’m desperate to get out of there. The heat is stifling, the fire too close, as though it might leap out and set me aflame at any moment. I need the fresh air. I need to walk back home. I need to see Sherlock.  


“I would like you to remove yourself from my brother,” Mycroft answers me.  


In that moment, with that straightforward request, I finally become fully aware of the very acute fact that that will never happen. The conviction of it is like a tightening fist in my chest as I can’t even contemplate the impact it would have on me to leave Sherlock for good. Losing him crippled me, even though I wouldn’t allow it to break me. To turn my back on him is unthinkable.  


I will get angry with him. I will probably get even more furious than I was not yet an hour ago and I will have to get out of his company and walk it off, but that can never mean that I won’t go back to him.  


“No,” I therefore tell Mycroft, unable to contain my disgust with him.  


“You actually believe this won’t happen again?” Mycroft demands, fingers tapping the corner of one photograph as he keeps his eyes in mine. “The necessity for it? You will both end up dead, is that what you want? You know what Sherlock is like when distracted, you must have seen it for yourself. Your friendship with him is a distraction.”  


“No, see, that’s where you’re wrong,” I disagree. “You don’t know anything. For all the hours you spend watching other people going about their lives you can’t possibly understand this, can you? I want you to know that I’m done listening to you; I was done a while ago. Stop trying to control your brother. It makes you look like such an idiot.”  


With that I leave the room, heading back the way I came, feeling elated and somehow terrified at the same time.  


The air isn’t as cold as it has been for the past few days, but it’s fresh in comparison to the stuffy indoors and I breathe deeply as I head down the steps to the drive. The gate is already gliding open silently and I walk through it, continuing down the pavement, not caring where I am, really, just needing to feel the ground underneath the soles of my shoes, the steady movement of my legs, it’s always helped me clear my head.  


Was it for my own sake as well, I can’t help but think. Was it easier for me not to commit to what he’d come to mean to me if I pretended that I couldn’t possibly mean anything to him? It seems ludicrous. I want to tell myself now that I wasn’t aware, that I honestly didn’t know that I could mean anything to him, that all the times he side-stepped, overlooked, ignored or, in general, forgot me completely added up to him not seeing me as anything other than someone quite useful who, for some reason, had decided to put up with his antics and so he might as well keep me around.  


I don’t know why it feels like such a triumph to have something tangible telling me that I’m not exchangeable to him. Perhaps it’s because it puts me level with him for the first time since I’ve known him.  


I cross a side-street and realize I’m not far from Hampstead Heath. I decide to walk and it takes me the better part of two hours to get to my apartment.  


My fingers are trembling when I unlock the front door and though I am already fairly certain that he wouldn’t have lingered, I’m still surprised at how relieved I am to find the flat empty.  


I pour myself a large whisky and down it in three hard gulps that set my throat and soon my chest ablaze with heat. I close my eyes, allowing the sensation to possess me, pressing the glass to my forehead as I stand still in the silence, listening to my pulse as it thuds its steady beat in my ears and I wonder where he’s gone. When he’ll be back. And I realize that he won’t address our earlier disagreement, my anger, my leaving. He’ll glance over it the way he always does and I’ll be disappointed all over again, so how am I going to handle it?  


I bring out my mobile to send him a text, but my hesitation makes me irritated with myself and I give it up, about to pour myself another drink, but stopping the movement, screwing the cork back on the bottle instead.  


No point in getting drunk.  


¤

  


I’ve spent an illuminating afternoon in the company of Mr. Woodsbridge and am happy to see your jacket on its hook when I enter the flat. It’s almost five o’clock and I’m thinking we should go to dinner, preferably someplace familiar, possibly someplace with prawns. I bring out my mobile to look up the number to one of your favourite seafood restaurants, knowing you always enjoy their crab, and am dialling as you enter the sitting room.  


“Dinner?” I ask.  


“Mh,” you give a nod. “Saw Mycroft earlier,” you add, casually enough for me to draw the conclusion that it was anything but casual.  


I shut the mobile off with a flick of my wrist. You have my full attention. From your body language I can tell the experience wasn’t a pleasant one. I should have known he would do something like this, I’ve felt it coming since our last meeting. What has he shown you?  


“And?” I give as response.  


“And he had some pictures. Of Mishka Romanov after you... Well, after you confronted him,” you reply, glancing at me and I cock an eyebrow.  


I have no clue as to what you make of this. I feel the creeping insecurity again and it puts me in immediate defence mode as I reply:  


“We had to get answers out of him.”  


“Oh, of course,” you nod. “Like that woman? What was it about her son? You used him as leverage; I remember someone said so in the debriefing.”  


I raise my eyebrows.  


“Is this why you write everything down?” I counter.  


“Sherlock,” you say warningly and I take a few steps towards you, wanting nothing but to convince you of how unnecessary this discussion is.  


“I got the boy out of the country,” I reply. “I got him to safety. It was a _good_ thing, you understand? Without Mona Little I wouldn’t have had anything to go on. The trail was completely dead. I wouldn’t have been able to...” I shake my head as I cut myself short. “It was a necessary means to an end,” I finish. “But you know all this already so what else did Mycroft say?”  


You stare at me for a long moment before you give a small shrug and head into the hallway. You pull your jacket on, looking over at me as I’m not moving, merely observing you. I can tell there’s something more, but you lift your eyebrows before you head out the door and after a moment’s hesitation I follow you.  


¤

  


He’s definitively a little thrown by the whole Mycroft business, but I’m not going to tell him what his brother asked of me because no matter what I may think of the man, he is still Sherlock’s only living relative. I’m not going to cause any more friction. Especially not when I know how Sherlock detests Mycroft’s insistence on acting like the older and wiser of the two.  


And so Sherlock and I share a seafood platter at one of the better restaurants in the city, speaking of the case, going over the finer details before we move onto the now retrieved Blue Carbuncle pendant, which Sherlock handed over to Mr. Woodsbridge for inspection earlier in the afternoon. It will go straight to an exhibition at the Museum of London, but, of course, Mr. Woodsbridge never sought to claim it for his own – he simply wanted the mystery solved.  


We head back to my flat to spend the rest of the evening watching a mixed programming, alternating between channels I actually like watching and channels Sherlock insists I should like. And so there it is: normality.  


I’m not surprised. I’m not relieved. I’m not angry or disappointed anymore either. I’m as accepting as ever. But I can’t sleep.  


I keep seeing him falling. When I close my eyes, there he is, falling.  


_No – friends protect people._  


Moran’s bullet slamming itself into the back of that armchair. That dull thud. Moran could have killed him, but didn’t. Why?  


Because it’s not finished. Hell, it’s barely even started this time around and Sherlock knows it. It’s Moriarty all over again and the worry is heavy in my chest. It’s pointless to engage with it, of course, but it doesn’t matter how well I know this, it’s there all the same. I can’t lift it. I can’t even push it down anymore.  


But it’ll be okay. It all has to be okay. I have to trust in that or I’ll drive myself mad.  


I hear Sherlock shift on the lilo. It calms me.

**September 29th**

  


I ring the doorbell of 221B for a second time and finally the door before me opens. It feels a bit odd not having a key.  


“Is that a new dress?” I ask with a frown, before I give Mrs. Hudson a wide smile.  


She’s clamped her hands over her mouth, tears in her eyes, but then she opens her arms and I pull her to me. Mrs. Hudson: the only landlady I could ever even consider putting up with. It’s truly good to see her again.  


She pulls back and gives my shoulder a slap of reprove as she says:  


“Sherlock Holmes, you rogue, what took you so long?”  


My smile widens and she returns it, touching a hand to my hair and correcting a stray lock before she bids me to come inside. I follow her across the threshold, my eyes gliding up the familiar stairs. It looks the same. Those steps trampled by our feet a thousand times.  


Mrs. Hudson makes me strong coffee and puts out a plate of biscuits before she sits across from me at her kitchen table.  


“You look tired. Are you sleeping?” she asks gently.  


“Well enough,” I reply.  


“I have to admit it was a bit of a shock seeing you on the telly like that,” she says and I know there’s regret on my face because she reaches out and places a hand over mine. “Where’s John?”  


I smile briefly to that before I ask:  


“Would it be possible? To...?” I point to the ceiling with a hopeful expression and she looks wondering for a moment before she says:  


“Oh, where’s the harm?”  


I give her a warm smile at that, following her back into the hallway and up the stairs, my smile dying away as I catch sight of the doors to our previously shared sitting room and kitchen – they have been exchanged for new ones that are completely without character.  


She unlocks the one to the sitting room and I steel myself as I immediately register that the walls have been repainted in a shade of yellow that should only be permissible if one was diagnosed with colour blindness. I step inside, having a quick look around as I walk the few steps taking me into the kitchen: clean, well-kept, utilitarian and painted a blotchy crimson.  


“Who are the tenants?” I more or less demand of Mrs. Hudson.  


“A lovely Armenian couple. She’s in retail and he’s in real estate and they don’t have children, but they’re planning to have two in a few years time. They have to wait a while because of the money-…”  


“Yes, thank you, the fact that they keep their tea in labelled jars next to the sink tells me plenty.”  


“You haven’t changed,” she giggles and I smirk, stopping in the middle of the sitting room, taking in the roundness of the furniture, the semi-vintage radio on the windowsill, the Monets on the wall and I feel this shouldn’t take a lot of effort.  


And as if on cue the front door opens downstairs.  


“Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson urges as she walks out onto the landing.  


I follow her, allowing for her to lock the door just as the couple comes up the stairs. They share a wondering look at the sight of us before the husband says:  


“Hello, Mrs. Hudson. Were you just in the flat?”  


“That was on account of me, I’m afraid I insisted,” I cut in, reaching out a hand to him.  


“You’re...” the wife begins, but instead of hearing her state my name I fill in:  


“The previous tenant, yes. I just wanted to have a look around, you don’t mind?”  


“No, no, of course not,” the wife says, a little too eagerly, getting a glance of disapproval from the husband.  


I smile at the wife as the husband unlocks the door, turning my expression quizzical to ask her if I can come with them inside again, to which she nods with a smile in return. I allow her to enter before me and then place my hands at the small of my back as I saunter across the room to the right-hand window.  


“Brings back memories,” I say, peering down onto the street below before I turn to them with another smile. “Did you know a man was killed in this room?” I add, both their smiles turning somewhat stale. “Well, not precisely killed,” I correct myself. “Thrown out the window. Grizzly business, though he _was_ American,” I add.  


They share another glance and I plough on:  


“There have been threats of murder, however. Fist fights, sword fights, guns going off – there were bullet holes in that wall when you moved in, yes?” I ask, pointing to the yellow, Monet-covered wall in question. “A bomb exploded in the house across the street; this is not a safe neighbourhood. What _would_ be a safe neighbourhood?”  


At their quizzical expressions I say:  


“Name a neighbourhood,” and their eyebrows rise in unison.  


**October 1st**

I’ve barely seen Sherlock for the past two days as I’ve been taking on longer hours at work, not only to make up for the week I was away, but to ease some of the guilt I feel at my really not wanting to be at the clinic at all. Due to this I have no idea what Sherlock’s been up to, except for a note I found this morning that had a scribbled ‘Errands’ on it.  


Safe to say I’m taken aback when I enter my office and he’s standing in front of my desk, chatting with Kate – the receptionist – who is as flustered as I’ve ever seen her. Her smile looks ready to split her face in two when she spots me, realizing I don’t need an introduction of this particular visitor and excusing herself with reddening cheeks. My eyes follow her out the door before I turn them on his innocent expression.  


“This is where I work,” I reproach. “I don’t want you doing your Jedi mind tricks on my colleagues.”  


“My what?” he asks, but I ignore him.  


“Why are you here?” I inquire.  


“Just visiting,” he replies.  


“Why?” I ask.  


“Can’t I simply want to see where you work?” he retorts and my eyes narrow.  


“No,” I answer, walking around the desk and sitting down. “What is it?”  


I am secretly praying for a case to have come up. Preferably something of a grand nature – working for a member of parliament or possibly a minister of some sort – that will erase my guilt and give me a valid reason to ask for another few days off. I’m certain Gareth Richardson wouldn’t mind helping me if he knew that he was, by extension, also aiding Sherlock Holmes as well as the very isle of Britain.  


Stopping my train of thought there, before it runs away with me completely, I observe my friend sternly. He is here for a reason, but if it was a case I doubt he’d be this patient, smooching with Kate and inspecting my office.  


I meet his gaze and find he’s watching me.  


“What?” I ask.  


“You actually wear a white coat,” he observes.  


“Yes, of course I wear a white coat. I’m a doctor.”  


“Mh,” he says, “I’ll believe that when I see it.”  


There’s a clear pinch to his tone that I know is there to irk me. The hint of a dare that is as absurd as it is undoubtedly legit on his part.  


“We’ve been over this – you’re not watching me in surgery,” I therefore state without hesitation.  


“I wouldn’t have to be _in_ surgery. I could watch from the gallery.”  


“This is a small practice, we don’t have a gallery,” I object.  


“Through the little window in the door, then, you must have one of those.”  


“Doors and walls are completely windowless, I’m afraid,” I reply, but I can’t keep down a smile and he smirks as well. 

“Anything else?”  


“Yes – what time will you finish?” he wonders.  


“I don’t know what time I’ll-...”  


“Decide.”  


I look at him for a long moment, wondering why it seems so easy to make up my mind whenever he tells me it needs to be made up.  


“Seven,” I reply.  


“Good. Seven,” he nods, turning and heading for the door. “Meet me at Baker Street.”  


“What?” I ask, incredulous.  


“Old address,” he clarifies.  


“Yes, I got _that_ ,” I say. “What are we-...?”  


“Do you enjoy working here?” he wonders, stopping with his hand on the doorknob. “Really?” he adds. “I met your boss. Good man if you don’t mind him using you to attract new clientele. Oh, of course he’s using you – this place was hanging on by a thread before they hired you, haven’t you read their budget statements?”  


I feel a twinge of annoyance at him and I know it settles on my face, but he barrels on and the annoyance morphs into wonderment as he informs me:  


“And if the figures, before you joined the sinking ship and fixed her leaking haul, aren’t enough: the honourable Dr. Morton has a smaller office than anyone else here, an office that he’s crammed full of medical texts – if that’s not desperation I don’t know what is. Really, John, have I not taught you anything?” At my now blank expression he elaborates: “He’s a shallow man who believes a smaller office will signal his willingness to sacrifice himself for his employees when all it really tells anyone is how he can more easily cram it full of useless bragging paraphernalia.  


“More likely his thirst for knowledge is displayed on those shelves than what’s actually jangling around in that figure infested little brain of his. He even has a picture of a brain on his wall! Even I don’t have that. And now he gets to boast about having one of the most successful private clinics in London – all to do with him having a celebrity on staff. I hope he at least pays you well.”  


With that my friend is gone, the door sliding shut after him, clicking closed and I sit in the absolute silence for a few moments, letting the words sink in while I stare at the door until my eyes glaze over and my mind begins to wander and I get up to go and have a quiet confrontation with my boss.  


¤

  


I look around the sitting room, unable to not feel pleased with the results. It took me a while to find the right wallpaper, but it was worth the effort. Funny what money can simplify things; expedite them. I rarely concern myself with it, but having it does make a difference. A hefty sum sent the lovely Armenian couple on their way to a flat in Primrose Hill and another made certain the team of workers restored this place into what it was before. I retrieved my furniture from Mycroft’s. Everything’s back the way it should be and it’s centring me. I like it much better this way.  


At six-fifty-eight the doorbell downstairs rings and suddenly I’m nervous. I hadn’t expected that.  


It takes another minute. I can hear you talking to Mrs. Hudson and I’m about to call down to her to go make us some sandwiches when your steps are on the stairs. I hang back and wait and when you enter I watch your eyes grow a little before you turn them on me.  


“What have you done to the Pakradounis?” you ask.  


I give you a calming smile at that, heading into the kitchen. Soon you follow me.  


“No bullet holes,” you remark.  


“Didn’t have a gun,” I reply and you’re smirking as you stop at the other end of the new kitchen table.  


Small and medium sized boxes are stacked on top of its white surface. I’ve already unpacked a few and pieces of shiny new laboratory equipment stand on display where once there used to be antiques. You move to lean against the counter, watching me as I pull the tape off another box before carefully bringing out its glass contents.  


“So I take it you’ve moved back in?” you ask.  


I drop an emptied box among the others on the floor, resting my hands on my hips, taking in my handiwork as I reply:  


“Yeah... Fetch me that screwdriver.”  


An assortment of selected tools sit on the counter behind you and you find the one I asked for, bringing it to me. I can feel you studying me as I begin to connect the metal skeleton, which will hold the glass parts that help create the basis for so much of my work. All these parts are scratch-free – they should be stained from hours of use; neglected, but never underappreciated. They should show how, without them, I can’t quite function properly.  


I glance up at you and your gaze meets mine.  


“Room upstairs available?” you inquire and though my movements slow momentarily I’m fairly certain you don’t notice it.  


“Obviously,” I then confirm, putting the screwdriver down and straightening up again, glancing at you.  


When you offer me a small smile before heading into the sitting room it settles me and allows me to relax for the first time in three days.

**October 4th**

I give up the lease on my apartment to a retired admiral who is moving from the countryside to the city and keeps saying the word marvellous in between my every word as I show him around the place. He’s desperate for something small and simple, a bachelor and a bit of a loner who immediately paces out the measurements of the sitting room where, he explains, he’ll be installing proper bookcases for his library. He gives me instructions to read every word of Dickens until I know them by heart and when I actually manage to quote a line from _Great Expectations_ I immediately regret it as it launches him into a near fit of back-slapping encouragement.  


This meeting with a man who has spent his whole life alone and knows nothing else makes me feel satisfied at the thought of where I’m headed next – to an old room with an old bed and an old friend who is waiting for me.  


I’ve chosen to take the effort Sherlock’s put into procuring our old accommodations as his, always so roundabout, way of apologizing for the intrusion into my privacy. For someone who always speaks his mind he’s really quite horrible at expressing his emotions and I suppose I understand the reason: he so often acts on impulse and doesn’t always recognize the underlying motive.  


To him, getting the flat back probably only translates as him wanting to restore the balance and he sees no other grounds for his actions than him needing to have it restored. He doesn’t consider the fact that he’s also effectively showing me that he wants me with him. But I’ll take the showing over the telling: words can be distorted, actions never lie.  


I stop and pick up a gift for him before I steer my feet toward Baker Street. It’s something I owe him and so I don’t even know if it technically is a gift, but either way, it’s my way of showing him I’m glad to be back home. That I’m as ready as he is for things to finally be as they were.  


I round the corner and see the familiar awning, dark red in the dying light, and the well-known front door.  
I have a strong sense of déjà vu as I cross the street, the asphalt appearing for a moment littered with debris from the explosion that had blown a hole in the building opposite to ours. I remember how, when I first saw it, I was nauseated by the thought of the stupid argument I’d had with him the night before, where he was being petty and I was being stubborn, and thinking that if that was the last time I ever saw him I would never be able to forgive myself for it.  


I recall how relieved I was, once I’d entered the flat, at seeing him seated – impeccable and put together as always – in his chair and how the relief had deepened when he didn’t hesitate to ask me to join him once more. He told me then that he’d be lost without me and since he said it lightly I didn’t take it as anything more than a peace offering. But perhaps he meant it as something more than that, even back then.  


It’s futile to consider whatever subtext might be there – he won’t be aware of it and will probably not even care about it, there’s no point in putting any stock into it, but it’s good to feel needed.  


I have to smile at myself, shaking my head as I bring out my key, glancing up at the windows before I continue inside.  


The strong smell of something foul burning hits me as soon as I enter the hallway and I glare at the ceiling. When I enter the sitting room, sure enough the chemistry set is being put to good use and Sherlock is at the kitchen table, making notes on a pad while glancing at the low flame cooking something indistinguishable into something looking like it might be tar. The smell in the room is so strong it makes me cough, putting a hand over my nose and mouth before I head up to the windows, opening both of them to air out the worst of it.  


“Sherlock,” I then say, heading into the kitchen.  


He’s yet to acknowledge me and I wonder if he’s even noticed me. Usually he doesn’t when he’s in the middle of an experiment. I feel the need to yank the notepad away from him to get his attention, but suppress the urge.  


“It is the most remarkable thing,” he murmurs.  


“Is it?” I ask tersely.  


“Yes, quite brilliant, actually. Considering the precision it takes to mix the gunpowder in without blowing yourself up,” he states matter-of-factly.  


“What?” I demand.  


“Oh, don’t worry – it’s perfectly safe,” he answers as I direct suspicious eyes on the substance. “It hardens, you see,” he adds, leaning back to retrieve something on the counter behind him.  


It’s a soft, plastic mould and he pushes on one of the small holes to bring a black, elongated shape into his palm: a bullet. He holds it up between thumb and forefinger, demonstratively, and I realize that the warmth in his eyes is respect. I also conclude who has earned it. It makes my brow furrow.  


“Moran,” I name the man responsible for Sherlock’s expression and his eyes light up as he nods.  


“The heat of firing the bullet starts a chemical reaction that completes upon impact,” he says.  


“And the bullet disappears,” I conclude, making him smile as though still amazed at the genius of it.  


It makes me feel the need to punch him in the face, but I also know in the following instant that the incentive comes out of this gnawing fear that I’m walking around with. Moran intriguing him is a problem and, to all intents and purposes, Sherlock won’t see it. No matter what promises he makes to me, in the end he won’t be able to resist the chance to prove that he’s cleverer than some criminal Gepetto trying to work his strings. But I don’t know what to say to stop it. All I can do is be there to have his back when the situation turns on him. Because it will turn on him.  


“Could you, please, do me this one favour and avoid the experiments that might take out the whole street?” I snap before I turn and leave the room, feeling like a petulant child, but having no other way of expressing my frustration with him.  


I enter my room, where my own boxes are standing neatly ordered. I realize I completely forgot to give him his present – it’s still in my clenched right hand – and now I’m not in the mood to give him anything. I toss the long parcel on the bed and walk up to the first box, beginning to unload my collection of jumpers and putting them on hangers in the wardrobe.  


“John,” his voice says from the doorway and I turn my head to him, raising my eyebrows.  


He’s quietly waiting and I stop what I’m doing, observing him for a moment.  


“Consequences, Sherlock,” I say. “Next time just... try to think of the consequences. Alright?”  


His face clears slightly of the question that was there and he looks suddenly self-conscious. I frown at him, unused to him lingering on my mood of disapproval, but he looks regretful enough, clearly unsure of where to go from here. I smile, then, unable not to, and nod to the bed. He glances over at it, noting the parcel.  


“It’s a bow,” he states, making my smile widen.  


“Can’t you ever just say thank you?” I ask, making him smile a half smile as well, retrieving the parcel with almost ginger fingers, holding it in both hands without making any move to unwrap it.  


He always acts as though getting a present is a custom he can’t quite grasp – like marriage or dating. Perhaps I enjoy giving him presents so much because of this. It’s one of the few times I can knowingly bring him completely out of his element.  


“Are you going to try it?” I nudge and his fingers take a firmer hold on the parcel before he leaves the room without answering.  


A minute later I hear the first notes of his violin as the bow teases its strings into life and I stand still for a few minutes, merely listening to the sound of many early mornings and late nights. It wraps me in nostalgia and it doesn’t take long before I decide to ignore the lingering smell and head back down to occupy my armchair by the fire, kicking my shoes off and stretching my legs out, allowing for a contentment that warms more than the logs in the fireplace.


	16. The Start of Things

**October 5th**

  


I dream oddly.  


I’m walking down Baker Street, knowing I’m leaving Sherlock behind in the flat. He’s alone. Then there’s the sound of a gunshot. When I turn around I see a bullet travelling through the air, ripping it apart as it moves on its trajectory, from the roof of the building across toward the left hand window of the flat. I know Sherlock is standing in it. I know I can’t possibly stop what’s about to happen.  


But then I’m the one holding the rifle and I’m the one on the roof opposite and I see Sherlock silhouetted against the window and I scream for him to get down. He doesn’t. His eyes meet mine as the bullet cracks the window and then he disappears behind a curtain of shattering glass.  


_John_ , Audrey whispers in my ear. _John, wake up._  


And her hand is holding mine and I open my eyes to look at her and she’s smiling gently down at me, but then her hold tightens and suddenly I’m running like a madman and it’s Sherlock’s hand I’m holding, pulling me, demanding me to hurry. We mustn’t be caught. There is the harrowing noise of sirens getting closer.  


_John_ , Sherlock’s voice says and I turn my head to him where he’s standing in the doorway of my room, hesitant and wondering and worried. _Where did you go?_  


I don’t know what he means. I never left. He never left.  


He never left me.  


He was right there, like a ghost on my trail, like the spectre I secretly longed for.  


_Distraction_ , Mycroft declares. _You affect him..._  


_...and what about next time?_ Audrey asks, seated across from me at her dining room table, the red table cloth she liked so much covering it. There’s a stain on it. It looks like dried blood. _I can’t wait for you to come home,_ she insists.  


I am home, I try to tell her. I’ve come home. But it’s not her in front of me anymore, it’s Sherlock, and for some reason I can’t tell him. He’s rubbing the dried blood off his hands, the sound of a helicopter in the distance, and I reach over, wrapping my hands around his, making him stop. His hands are cold. He’s always cold. Like there’s a chill in his bones that he’s had since childhood. One that he can’t get rid of.  


But then his hands are Audrey’s hands and she’s in his chair before me, in front of the fireplace, and she moves her hands out of my grasp to place them on either side of my face. Her palms are warm and she smiles again, moving her lips to kiss my forehead.  


_Tell me_ , she whispers. _You can tell me. Tell me. I promise, you can. You can tell me, John. Do you?_  


When I open my eyes Sherlock is occupying the space where she was, only he’s sprawled across the chair, staring at the ceiling, head leaned back, vacant expression on and there’s a needle in his hand. It drips its residual contents onto the carpet. I rise, grabbing the needle and throwing it into the dark fireplace, about to slap him out of his stupor when I turn my head to the window and he’s standing there, before it, looking out of it, and I know what he’s looking at the second before the window smashes into a thousand glittering shards and the bullet connects with his chest.  


It takes an eternity for him to fall backwards. The silk of his dressing gown shimmers like he’s actually wearing a flow of water and I think, stupidly, that he’ll drown in it. I am trying to move, but I can’t do anything but watch.  


_Are you going to be the observer for the rest of your life?_  


_I am not,_ I say and my voice is loud in the complete silence. _I am not,_ I repeat and suddenly I’m behind him and we fall together as I catch him.  


I wake up then. I’m disoriented by the ceiling that feels both unfamiliar and still is so well-known. I wonder if I’m still dreaming until I realize that it’s real: the bed beneath me, the walls, the slanting light from the streetlamp outside. The boxes are still there. The lingering scent of melted bullet. And the phantom feeling of Sherlock in my arms.  


I close my eyes and go back to sleep.  


¤

  


The scent of scrambled eggs and bacon beckon me into the sitting room the following morning. Sherlock is chewing on a piece of toast, handing me the parts of _The Times_ that he’s already finished and hmh-ing when I thank him. He sips his tea as I begin to butter some toast for myself. I ask for the jam and frown when I’m informed Mrs. Hudson didn’t bring any.  


“Mrs. Hudson!” I call out. “ _Mrs. Hudson!_ ”  


She is just entering the room, carrying a tray with a fresh pot of tea and, I’m pleased to notice, a jar of blackberry jam.  


“All this yelling, John, really,” she reproves and I give her an apologetic look as she hands me the jar and puts the fresh pot on the table. “Now, don’t you two be getting into bad habits – I am not your housekeeper.”  


“Oh, come off it. You made breakfast – hardly the same as keeping house,” Sherlock comments, not lifting his eyes off the paper.  


She smacks her tongue with dislike before she turns and leaves with her tray. I rest my gaze on Sherlock until he finally looks at me and it only takes a moment for him to smirk.  


“Please,” he comments my reproachful expression. “You know as well as I that it delights her how we rely on her. And she makes an _exceptional_ breakfast. Try the bacon.”  


I roll my eyes at him, opening my own newspaper and digging into the food. The first headline that catches my attention is one that has the word ‘gunfire’ in it. It brings back the dream I had the previous night in such a vivid way that I feel my pulse quicken. I turn my eyes on Sherlock before they wander to the window behind him.  


“Something wrong?” he asks and my gaze is in his the following instant.  


I don’t know why I feel so uncomfortable.  


“No,” I reply, almost defensively, straightening out the paper and looking back at the pages, trying to ignore how I can feel his eyes rest on me for another few moments before he lets it go.  


It’s quiet for a handful of minutes, but then he says something that takes me completely by surprise as he inquires:  
“Do you still have nightmares?”  


“No,” I answer, even though he clearly already knows I do.  


He merely lifts his eyebrows slightly, watching my face for answers and I let out a huff before I fold up my paper and put it aside, observing him back.  


“Because last night...” he begins.  


“Yes?” I interrupt, the way he always does when I’m trying to help.  


“Well, I thought I heard...”  


“What?” I cut in.  


He’s not deterred and puts his paper down as well.  


“Have you ever been in love?” I counter.  


My pulse is suddenly hard in my throat and I think I’ve just made a big, stupid blunder that I can’t take back and why can’t I ask him anything personal without feeling like I’m cross examining him for some obscure crime? Why does it put me so on edge? Why shouldn’t it be natural? I know this man. I know what frustrates, angers and annoys him; I know what amuses him, motivates him, what weakens him and frightens him; I’ve seen him at his highest and his lowest; I have watched him die and I have been there to see what his life means to many more people than he cares to acknowledge. Why does it feel like I’m disturbing something by asking a simple question?  


His expression is even.  


“Love is merely another word for procreation,” he then replies.  


“Love is the same as _sex_ , you mean?” I ask, not intending for the translation to sound quite so loaded, but it does.  


“The survival of the species,” he confirms, unfazed. “We mate for life because it’s suitable for our pack mentality. Babies smell nice so that we won’t accidentally cook them up for lunch. Make no mistake, if we’d not been designed this way from the get go there would be mayhem. Well – further mayhem than there already is. People cheat for the same reason. The human race is programmed to birth offspring so that we won’t become extinct. It’s a fairly simple formula which obviously works.”  


“So you’ve never...?”  


His eyes turn suddenly relentless.  


“Never what?” he demands.  


“Well...” I try. “I mean, there was the Adler woman...”  


“What about the woman?” he asks impatiently.  


“You didn’t...?” I can’t quite find the ending to my query.  


What the hell am I doing this for anyway? What is it I expect to learn that has any bearing on our relationship whatsoever? Why do I keep coming back to that bloody woman?  


“Look,” I put my hands up, leaning back on my chair, “it’s none of my business.”  


“Finish the question,” he pushes, his observing of me intense enough to make me feel truly daft.  


“It doesn’t matter,” I deflect, but I’ve caught his interest now and suddenly he won’t be put off that easily.  


“I’d like you to finish the question, John,” he states encouragingly. “Go on.” When I can’t find my voice he finds it for me as he says: “Did I fall in love with Irene Adler?”  


Though, I suppose – given the nature of the woman – I was leaning more towards the procreation part than the love of the equation, now that the question is out there in the open I almost lean forward again to hear the answer.  


Something moves across his face in and I realize that it’s grief. I don’t know why I should feel stung by it, but I do. The shock of noticing it is like an icing in my chest that sends goose bumps up my arms and I want to look away from him, forget I ever saw it there, but I can’t. I have my answer – now I should be glad of it. He felt something for her that I doubt he’d ever felt before. I can’t look away, however; instead I ask:  


“It’s more than some prehistoric urge for survival. Isn’t it?”  


His eyes meet mine again.  


“No. There was no impossibility attached to setting her free. There was nothing in me that wanted to ask her to stay. I let it go. The moment passed.”  


“What do you mean? You couldn’t have asked her to stay,” I remark, certain I look as confused as I feel.  


He sips his tea, nodding, before he replies:  


“Yes, yes, exactly. But if I _could_ have.”  


“You kept her phone.”  


“Yes, for a case closed. Not for sentimental reasons.”  


“Is it still in the drawer?”  


He grows hesitant. He doesn’t know himself.  


“Does it matter?” he then wonders. “Why did you keep my violin?”  


I stare at him, suddenly hating how he’s able to do this. How a conversation can turn so quickly in his favour and I’m left dangling from the hook, even when I was the one providing it in the first place.  


“Don’t change the subject,” I retort.  


“I didn’t. Merely the focus,” he responds.  


“Well, I – as supposed to you – believe in actual human emotion,” I say, making him look almost bored.  


“Why?” he asks lazily and I can tell I’m losing his interest, which serves to aggravate my already rustled defences.  


“Why?” I parrot.  


“I’ve just given you a set of perfectly good arguments against believing in them,” he replies simply.  


“But you feel them, too. You don’t always choose to recognize them, but I know you feel them,” I state pointedly. “How can you discard them so easily?”  


“What do you mean I don’t always ‘choose’ to recognize them?” he bites back.  


“I mean you choose to feel something when it’s convenient for you.”  


He grows silent, thinking, and then says:  


“Perhaps.”  


_Sherlock has grown to care for you, Dr. Watson._  


“Caring about people...” I say, trailing off. “Well, you weren’t _born_ as... this... as how you are now, were you? So you must have, at some point, for someone... Caring isn’t always a weakness,” I offer, stumbling.  


“How?” he asks and I can tell he truly would like to know.  


I can’t explain it to him. I can hardly understand precisely what is going on inside of him most of the time, how can I try and explain this in a way that would be relatable to him? When I don’t answer he seems to sink into thought and I sit in the silence for a little while, watching how the light of the window behind him slants across the floor, specks of dust glittering like tiny snowflakes drifting through the air.  


_You can tell me, I promise,_ Audrey’s voice comes back to me. _Do you?_  


Before I know it I’ve risen to my feet and taken a step forward, stopping by the side of my friend’s chair, feeling somewhat lost as to what my aim was with moving at all. I look down at him, at the mess of his black curls and the blue silk of his dressing gown and his slender hands resting haplessly on the armrests. And in that moment something tender unfolds in my chest, because of the fragility that is such a part of this powerful man and that always has been. I suppose it is what I feel needs proper discovering, uncovering. So that it’s not lost.  


I think back to the day I met Mike on that bench in Russell Square. How abandoned and useless I had felt for over a year, ever since I got back from Afghanistan. Even with some people calling me a hero for taking that bullet I never once felt like one. I’m not even convinced I felt like a true soldier before I met Sherlock Holmes. He took charge and led the way and now, in one sharp moment of realization, I think that perhaps it’s my turn.  


Before I have time to reflect or even properly process the impulse I’m leaning down.  


I reach out a hand, placing my palm so that I can press my thumb into the skin along his jaw line and make him turn his face to me.  


His eyes meet mine, wondering, possibly a little astonished at my sudden proximity. I don’t feel astonished – right in this moment I feel nothing but a welcomed sense of control, and with it comes an odd calm. Though I’m completely present I still feel oddly removed and so I can’t say what I do next comes out of active choice, but rather a compulsion. As if there is no choice and this fact is all I’m really fully aware of.  


My senses pick up on the smallest things, as though his closeness is a whetstone against which they can sharpen themselves: there’s the brush of his curls against my fingertips as I rest my hand at the nape of his neck, my touch firm and guiding, unrelenting now that it’s found such a comfortable spot; and his skin beneath my palm, warmer than I expected – if I had expected anything.  


I don’t hesitate, I will reflect later.  


I hold his gaze, the tip of my nose almost brushing his now, and I feel the heat of his breath across my cheek right before my lips meet his.  


My hold at the back of his neck tightens. I know I should be surprised at how my body is responding, but I’m not. It feels natural and expected as my pulse begins to pick up its pace.  


His head tilts back ever so slightly. It’s the only encouragement I get, apart from the fact that he’s not pulling away.  
Because he’s not.  


That emboldens me and makes me suddenly crave more. I open my eyes briefly, tentative for a second, but his lips are soft and I can’t even think of breaking away, of stepping back from him. Whatever drove me here, into this, into him, is unsatisfied and my lips part, bringing his hesitantly with them as I deepen the kiss.  


The rush of my blood in my ears is so loud that I can’t be sure, but I think I hear him make a soft noise as my tongue finds his, gently stroking it into play. He tastes of smoky bacon and fennel tea; of languid mornings like this, when the world is nothing more than the space we’re occupying and our conversation flows uninterrupted.  


I have no idea how long the kiss lasts.  


Somewhere there is a sense of alarm, but that somewhere is in the far off distance and all I can really feel for certain is how I am caught; how I’ve been irreversibly caught from the moment I first met him and how I am losing myself in him now. And something stirs, something deeply disturbing and yet perfectly logical, and it rushes the stark sense of alarm right into the middle of my chest.  


_Are you in love with him?_  


The question ringing through my head serves to push reason over impulse and in a blink I am not only aware of what I’m doing, but all the possible ramifications of it.  


The confusion fans the rising panic into a gale.  


I end the kiss, and as I pull back he opens his eyes to meet mine and there’s turmoil there like I’ve never seen in them before and I know then that the very simple, very logical, obvious and honest reply to the question is yes.  


I am in love with Sherlock Holmes.  


I am light headed and off kilter and about to fall over. I can’t think. And so I say a breathless, meaningless:  


“Right, then.”  


As I’m dazed out of any emotion but that of blinding terror I then promptly leave the room.  


I stop on the landing for a short second, deciding whether I should go hide in my room or flee into the streets. I opt for my room.  


Closing the door quietly behind me I go up to sit down on my bed. I sit on the very edge, placing my hands on my thighs and resting my eyes on the pattern of the wallpaper. It’s not as audacious as the one in the living room, but is more of a low key, orange colour. Or what did Mrs. Hudson call it? Peach? Quite possibly a low key, peachy colour. They didn’t renovate in here for whatever reason. Perhaps they didn’t get around to it. Or perhaps there was no need. The colour is low key, after all.  


I draw a slow breath, but apart from the wallpaper analysis my mind is a blank of white noise.  


I rise. But then I’m not moving. I simply stand there, staring at the peachy wallpaper and coming to the realization that I’m very thirsty.  


For a split second my mind is back in the middle of the kiss, with the slow, hard beating of my pulse through my veins and the sensation of his tongue languidly answering to the movements of my own. For a split second I want to walk – no, I want to run back down those stairs. But then I remember the look on his face.  


What possessed me that I would ever want him to look that unfettered?  


No. I can’t want this. I cannot.  


Whatever that look of bewilderment and confusion was on his face I can only think of one other time that even comes close to it, watching him unravelling before my eyes speaking of his encounter with the hound and how his clouded mind caused him to feel true fear for the first time. He couldn’t rely on his reason to provide him with solid, factual explanations. He was lost.  


_Distraction._  


Whatever happened to restoring things to what they were? That’s what I have to want. That will keep everything balanced. It’s a good place to be. I wanted to return to that place. It’s still what I want. Sherlock is pragmatic. There is a perfectly good explanation for what I just did: it was nothing more than a demonstration to underline my point. Or possibly his point. I can barely remember what the argument was about. But I will present my reasons to him in a way that will make him accept them. He’ll have to accept them.  


I know this man.  


He _will_ accept them.  


¤

  


You left in such a hurry that you forgot your tea. It’s sitting there now, getting cold in its cup. I consider rising to bring it up to you, but since you left in such a hurry I get the feeling you wanted privacy. And so I don’t move.  


There is the lingering impression of your hand at my neck.  


And the taste of your mint tea. Your mouth actually tasted like mint. And sweetened blackberries.  


I try to list what else I made note of, but the details turn into a blur and so I stop.  


The sensations are still there. Of your mouth and tongue. And of the reactions your kiss brought with it and I feel alarmingly warm again. I can’t quite focus.  


You did that.  


I’ve never experienced anything like that before. Never. I’ve never been in a position where I felt like myself, but at the same time outside of my body, as though my thoughts weren’t my own anymore and I couldn’t possibly control them, somehow forgetting about the need to keep them in line. Horrifying and unsettling as this was, I wasn’t upset by it because the cause for it was you.  


That is really what is now troubling me. Perhaps because a part of me wants to follow you, tell you to repeat it so that I get the chance to properly attempt to understand the process, my reactions to what you did and how you produced them. I comprehend the simple biological mechanics behind it, but... the rest of it.  


This urge is troubling because you’re close at hand. Because I could ask it of you and you would probably accept the proposition, given the fact that you were the one who instigated this in the first place. But I feel as though I shouldn’t want it, because of the possible consequences. It’s unclear to me what they might be, but I can sense that they’re there. That they drove you from the room.  


Finally I rise and begin to pace, glancing up at the ceiling. As I have nothing to relate to this situation I come up lacking any clear course of action and the frustration begins to grow stifling, until I realize there is only one course open to me: to wait and observe.  


Your actions started this and they will surely dictate the proper ending.  


Pleased with myself for coming to that conclusion I head into my bedroom to get dressed.  


After all, there is no rest for the wicked – or those in search of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¤  
> ¤  
> ¤  
> ¤  
> ¤  
> ¤  
> There it is - the ending to what I hope is the first part of a three part tale. 
> 
> Thank you for partaking! So happy to have had you through to the final chapter! Please, please, do hit the KUDOS button if you enjoyed it or leave a comment in the comment box - I appreciate hearing from you more than a combination of dark chocolate and Sherlock on replay so I beg you to indulge me. And I would love to know if there's any interest for the second part, which I haven't started writing as of yet!
> 
> Much love from Annie.


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